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V 



KATHRINA 



KATHRINA 



A POEM 




jPCr HOLLAND 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1885 






Copyright by 

CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO, 

1867 



Copyright by 
J. G. HOLLAND 



4 7 



»A) i^ IMI 



rfMiNM mrti 



Trow's 

Printing and Bookbinding Company 

201-213 East x2th Street 

NEW YOlcK 



4J 



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CONTENTS. 



PACB 

A Tribute i 

PART I. 
Childhood and Youth, . ..•••• 6 
Complaint, . . . . . , .... 47 

PART 11. 
Love, . . .'. . . • . . « .5^ 
A Reflection, ......... 128 

PART III. 

Labor, .131 

Despair, . , ... . • • • • .194 

PART IV. 
Consummation, •••••••o.igS 



KATHRINA. 



A TRIBUTE. 

More human, more divine than we — 
In truth, half human, half divine — 

Is woman, when good stars agree 
To temper with their beams benign 

The hour of her nativity. 

The fairest flower the green earth bears. 
Bright with the dew and light of heaven , 

Is, of the double life she wears. 
The type, in grace and glory given 

By soil and sun in equal shares. 

True sister of the Son of Man : 
True sister of the Son of God : 

What marvel that she leads the van 

Of those who in the path he trod. 

Still bear th.e cross and wear the ban? 
I 



Kathrina. 

If God be in the sky and sea, 
And live in light and ride the storm. 

Then God is God, although He be 
Enshrined within a woman's form ; 

And claims glad reverence from me. 



So, as I worship Him in Christ, 

And in the Forms of Earth and Air, 

I worship Him imparadised, 

And throned within her bosom fair 

Whom vanity hath not enticed. 



O ! woman — mother ! Woman — wife ! — 
The sweetest names that language knows I 

Thy breast, with holy motives rife, 
With holiest affection glows. 

Thou queen, thou angel of my life ! 



Noble and fine in his degree 

Is the best man my heart receives ; 

And this my heart's supremest plea 

For him : he feels, acts, lives, believes. 

And seems, and is, the likest thee. 



Kathrina. 

O men ! O brothers ! Well I know 
That with her nature in our souls 

Is born the elemental woe — 
The brutal impulse that controls, 

And drives, or drags, the godlike low. 



Ambition, appetite and pride— 

These throng and thrall the hearts of men : 
These plat the thorns, and pierce the side 

Of Him, who, in our souls again, 
Is spit upon, and crucified. 



The greed for gain, the thirst for power. 
The lust that blackens while it burns : 

Ah ! these the whitest souls deflour ! 
And one, or all of these by turns, 

Rob man of his divinest dower ! 



Yet man, who shivers like a straw 
Before Temptation's lightest breeze, 

Assumes the master — gives the law 
To her who, on her bended knees. 

Resists the black-winged thunder-flaw I 



Kathrina, 

To him who deems her weak and vain, 
And boasts his own exceeding might. 

She dings through darkest fortune fain ; 
Still loyal though the ruffian smite; 

Still true, though crime his hands distain! 



And is this weakness ? Is it not 

The strength of God, that loves and bears 
Though He be slighted or forgot 

In damning crimes, or driving cares. 
And closest clings in darkest lot? 



Not many friends my life has made; 

Few have 1 loved, and few are they 
Who in my hand their hearts have laid ; 

And these were women. I am gray. 
But never have I been betrayed. 



These words — this tribute — for the sake 
Of truth to God and womankind ! 

These — that my heart may cease to ache 
With love and gratitude confined, 

And burning from my lips to break! 



Kathrina, 

These — to that sisterhood of grace 
That numbers in its sacred list 

My mother, risen to her place ; 

My wife, but yester-morning kissed. 

And folded in Love's last embrace ! 



This tribute of a love profound 
As ever moved the heart of man, 

To those to whom my life is bound, 
To her in whom my life began, 

And her whose love my life hath crowned! 



Immortal Love! Thou still hast wings 
To lift me to those radiant fields. 

Where Music waits with trembling strings, 
And Verse her happy numbers yields, 

And all the soul within me sings. 



So from the lovely Pagan dream 
I call no more the Tuneful Nine ; 

For Woman is my Muse Supreme; 
And she with fire and flight divine. 

Shall light and lead me to my theme. 



PART I. 

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 

Thou lovely vale of sweetest stream that flows : 
Winding and willow-fringed Connecticut ! 
Swift to thy fairest scenes my fancy flies, 
As I recall the story of a life 
Which there began in years of sinless hope, 
And merged maturely into hopeless sin. 

O ! golden dawning of a day of storms, 

That fell ere noontide into rayless night ! 

O ! beautiful initial, vermeil-flowered. 

And bright with cherub -eyes and effigies, 

To the black-letter volume of my life ! 

O ! faery gateway, gilt and garlanded. 

And shining in the sun, to gloomy groves 

Of shadowy cypress, and to sunless streams. 

Feeding with bane the deadly nightshade's roots,- 

To vexing labyrinths of doubt and fear. 

And deep abysses of despair and death! 

Back to thy peaceful villages and fields. 



Kathrina. 

My memory, like a weary pilgrim, comes 

With scrip and burdon, to repose awhile, — 

To pluck a daisy from a lonely grave 

Where long ago, in common sepulture, 

I laid my mother and my faith in God ; 

To fix the record of a single day 

So memorably wonderful and sweet 

Its power of inspiration lingers still, — 

So full of her dear presence, so divine 

With the melodious breathing of her words, 

And the warm radiance of her loving smile, 

That tears fall readily as April rain 

At its recall ; to pass in swift jeview 

The years of adolescence, and the paths 

Of glare and gloom through which, by passion led, 

I reached the fair possession of my power, 

And won the dear possession of my love, 

And then — farewell! 

Queen-village of the meads 
Fronting the sunrise and in beauty throned. 
With jewelled homes around her lifted brow. 
And coronal of ancient forest trees — 
Northampton sits, and rules her pleasant realm. 
There where the saintly Edwards heralded 
The terrors of the Lord, and men bowed low 
Beneath the menace of his awful words ; 



8 Kathrma. 

And there where Nature, with a thousand tongues 
Tender and true, from vale and mountain-top, 
And smiling streams, and landscapes piled afar, 
Proclaimed a gentler Gospel, I was born. 

In an old home, beneath an older elm — 

A fount of weeping greenery, that dripped 

Its spray of rain and dew upon the roof — 

I opened eyes on life ; and now return, 

Among the visions of my early years. 

Two so distinct that all the rest grow dim : 

My mother's pale, fond face and tearful eyes, 

Bent upon me in Love's absorbing trance. 

From the low window where she watched my play ; 

And, after this, the wondrous elm, that seemed 

To my young fancy like an airy bosk, 

Poised by a single stem upon the earth. 

And thronged by instant marvels. There in Spring 

I heard with joy the cheery blue-bird's note ; 

There sang rejoicing robins after rain ; 

And there within the emerald twilight, which 

Defied the mid-day sun, from bough to bough — 

A torch of downy flame — the oriole 

Passed to his nest, to feed the censer-fires 

Which Love had lit for Airs of Heaven to swing. 

There, too, through all the weird September-eves 

I heard the harsh, reiterant katydids 



Kathrina, 

Rasp the mysterious silence. There I watched 

The glint of stars, playing at hide-and-seek 

Behind the swaying foliage, till drawn 

By tender hands to childhood's balmy rest. 

My Mother and the elm! Too soon I learned 

That o'er me hung, and o'er the widowed one 

Who gave me birth, with broader boughs. 

Haunted by sabler wings and sadder sounds, 

A darker shadow than the mighty elm ! 

I caught the secret in the street from those 

Who pointed at me as I passed, or paused 

To gaze in sighing pity on my play ; 

From playmates who, forbidden to divulge 

The knowledge they possessed, with childish tricks 

Of indirection strove in vain to hide 

Their awful meaning in unmeaning phrase ; 

From kisses which were pitiful ; from words 

Gentler than love's because compassionate; 

From deep, unconscious sighs out of the heart 

Of her who loved me best, and from her tears 

That freest flowed when I was happiest. 

From frailest filaments of evidence. 

From dark allusions faintly overheard. 

From hint and look and sudden change of theme 

When I approached, from widely scattered words 

Remembered well, and gathered all at length 

Into consistent terms, I know not how 



lO Kathrina, 

I wrought the full conclusion, nor how young. 
I only know that when 2^ little child 
I learned, though no one told, that he who gave 
My life to me in madness took his own — 
Took it from fear of want, though he possessed 
The finest fortune in the rich old town. 

Thenceforth I had a secret which I kept — 

Kept by my mother with as close a tongue — 

A secret which embittered every cup. 

It bred rebellion in me — filled my soul, 

Opening to life in innocent delight, 

With baleful doubt and harrowing distrust. 

Why, if my father was the godly man 

His gentle widow vouched with tender tears. 

Did He to whom she bowed in daily prayer — 

Who loved us, as she told me, with a love 

Ineffable for strength and tenderness — 

Permit such fate to him, such woe to us ? 

Ah ! many a time, repeating on my knees 

The simple language of my evening prayer 

Which her dear lips had taught me, came the dark 

Perplexing question, stirring in my heart 

A sense of guilt, or quenching all my faith. 

This, too, I kept a secret. I had died 

Rather than breathe the question in her ears 

Who knelt beside me. I had rather died 



Kathrina. 1 1 

Than add a sorrow to the load she bore. 
Taught to be true, I played the hypocrite 
In truthfulness to her. I had no God, 
Nor penitence, nor loyalty nor love ; 
For any being higher than herself. 
Jealous of all to whom she gave her hand, 
I clung to her with fond idolatry. 
I sat with her ; where'er she walked, I walked ; 
I kissed away her tears ; I strove to fill, 
With strange precocity of manly pride 
And more than boyish tenderness, the void 
Which death had made. 

I could not fail to see 
That ruth for me and sorrow for her loss — 
Twin leeches at her heart — were drinking blood 
That, from her pallid features, day by day 
Sank slowly down, to feed the cruel draught. 
Nay, more than this I saw, and sadly worse. 
Oft when I watched her and she knew it not, 
I marked a quivering horror sweep her face — 
A strange, quick thrill of pain — that brought her 

hand 
With sudden pressure to her heart, and forced 
To her white lips a swiftly whispered prayer. 
I fancied that I read the mystery ; 
But it was deeper and more terrible 



1 2 Kathrina. 

Than I conjectured. Not till darker years 
Came the solution. 

Still, we had some days 
Of pleasure. Sorrow cannot always brood 
Over the shivering forms that drink her warmth, 
But springs to meet the morning light, and soars 
Into the empyrean, to forget 
For one sweet hour the ring of greedy mouths 
That surely wait, and cry for her return. 
My mother's hand in mine, or mine in hers, 
We often left the village far behind, 
And walked the meadow-paths to gather flowers, 
And watch the plowman as he turned the tilth, 
Or tossed his burnished share into the sun 
At the long furrow's*end, the while we marked 
The tipsy bobolink, struggling with the chain 
Of tinkling music that perplexed his wings, 
And listened to the yellow-breasted lark's 
Sweet whistle from the grass. 

Glad in my joy, 
My mother smiled amid these scenes and sounds, 
And wandered on with gentle step and slow. 
While I, in boyish frolic, ran before, 
Chasing the butterflies, or in her path 
Tos^ng the gaudy gold of buttercups. 



Kathrina, 13 

Till sometimes, ere we knew, we stood entranced 
Upon the river's marge. 

Ever the spell 
Of lapsing water tamed my playful mood, 
And I reclined in silent happiness 
At the tired feet that rested in the shade. 
There through the long, bright mornings we remained, 
Watching the noisy ferry-boat that plied 
Like a slow shuttle through the sunny warp 
Of threaded silver from a thousand brooks, 
That took new beauty as it wound away ; 
Or gazing where at Holyoke's verdant base- 
Like a slim hound, stretched at his master's feet — 
Lay the long, lazy hamlet, Hockanum ; 
Or, upward turning, traced the line that climbed 
O'er splintered rock and clustered foliage 
To the bare mountain-top ; then followed down 
The scars of fire and storm, or paths of gloom 
That marked the curtained gorges, till, at last, 
Caught by a wisp of white, belated mist. 
Our vision rose to trace its airy flight 
Beyond the height, into the distant blue. 

One morning, while we rested there, she told 

Of a dear friend upon the other side — 

A lady who had loved her — whom she loved — 



1 4 Kathrina. 

And then she promised to my eager wish 
That soon, across the stream I longed to pass, 
I should go with her to the lady's home. 

The wishedfor day came slowly — came at last — 
My birthday morning — rounding to their close 
The fourteen summers of my boyhood's life. 
The early mists were clinging to the side 
Of the dark mountain as we left the town, 
Though all the roadside fields were quick with toil. 
In rhythmic motion through the dewy grass 
The mowers swept, and on the fragrant air 
Was borne from far the soft, metallic clash 
Of stones upon the steel. 

This was the day 
" So memorably wonderful and sweet 
Its power of inspiration lingers still, — 
So full of her dear presence, so divine 
With the melodious breathing of her words, 
And the warm radiance of her loving smile. 
That tears fall readily as April rain 
At its recall." And with this day there came 
The revelation and the genesis 
Of a new life. In intellect and heart 
I ceased to be a child, and grew a man. 
By one long leap I passed the hidden bound 



Kathrina. 1 5 

That circumscribed my boyhood, and thenceforth 
Abjured all childish pleasure, and took on 
The purpose and the burden of my life. 

We crossed the river — I, as in a dream ; 

And when I stood upon the eastern shore, 

In the full presence of the mountain pile. 

Strange tides of feeling thrilled me, and I wept — 

Wept, though I knew not why. I could have knelt 

On the white sand, and prayed. Within my soul 

Prophetic whispers breathed of coming power 

And new possessions. Aspiration swelled 

Like a pent stream within a narrow chasm, 

That finds nor vent nor overflow, but swirls 

And surges and retreats, until it floods 

The springs that feed it. All was chaos wild, — 

A chaos of fresh passion, undefined. 

Deep in whose vortices of mist and fire 

A new world waited blindly for its birth. 

I had no words for revelation ; — none 

For answer, when my mother pressed my hand. 

And questioned why it trembled. I looked up 

With tearful eyes, and met her loving smile, 

And both of us were silent, and passed on. 

We reached at length the pleasant cottage-home 
Where dwelt my mother's friend, and, at the gate, 



1 6 Kathrina, 

Found her with warmest welcome waiting us. 
She kissed my mother's cheek, and then kissed mine, 
Which shrank, and mantled with a new-born shame. 
They crossed the threshold : I remained without, 
Surprised — half-angry — with the burning blush 
That still o'erwhelmed my face. 

I looked around 
For something to divert my vexing thoughts, 
And saw intently gazing in my eyes. 
From his long tether in the grass, a lamb — 
A lusty, downy, handsome, household pet. 
There was a scarlet ribbon on his neck 
Which held a silver bell, whose note I heard 
First when his eye met mine ; for then he sprang 
To greet me with a joyous bleat, and fell. 
Thrown by the cord that held him. Pitying him, 
I loosed his cruel leashing, with intent. 
After a half-hour's frolic, to return 
And fasten as I foiind him ; but my hand. 
Too careless of its charge, slipped from its hold 
With the first bound he made ; and with a leap 
He cleared the garden wall, and flew away. 

Affrighted at my deed and its mischance, 
I paused a moment — then with ready feet, 
And first and final impulse, I pursued. 



Kathrina. 17 

He held the pathway to the mountain woods, 

The tinkle of his bell already faint 

In the long distance he had placed between 

Himself and his pursuer. On and on, 

Climbing the mountain path, he sped away, 

I following swiftly, never losing sight 

Of the bright scarlet streaming from his neck, 

Or hearing of the tinkle of his bell. 

Till, wearied both, and panting up the steep, 

Our progress slackened to a walk. 

At length 
He paused and looked at me, and waited till 
My foot had touched the cord he dragged, and then 
Bounded away, scaling the shelvy cliffs 
That bolder rose along the narrow path. 
He had no choice but mount. I pressed him close. 
And rocks and chasms were thick on either side. 
So, pausing oft, but ever leaping on 
Before my hand could reach him, he advanced. 
Not once in all the passage had I paused 
To look below, nor had I thought of her 
Whom I had left. Absorbed in the pursuit 
I pressed it recklessly, until I grasped 
My fleecy prisoner, wound and tied his cord 
Around my wrist, and both of us sank down 
\^on the mountain summit. 



1 8 Kathrina, 

In a swoon 
Of breathless weariness how long I lay 
I could not know; but consciousness at last 
Came by my brute companion, who, alert 
Among the scanty browse, tugged at my wrist, 
And brought me startled to my feet. I saw 
In one swift sweep of vision where I stood, — 
In presence of what beauty of the earth. 
What glory of the sky, what majesty 
Of lofty loneliness. I drew the lamb— 
The dear, dumb creature — gently to my side. 
And led him out upon the beetling cliff 
That fronts the plaided meadows, and knelt down. 

When once the shrinking, dizzy spell was gone, 

I saw below me, like a jewelled cup, 

The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip— <• 

The serrate green against the serrate blue — 

Brimming with beauty's essence ; palpitant 

With a divine elixir — lucent floods 

Poured from the golden chalice of the sun. 

At which my spirit'drank with conscious growth, 

And drank again with still expanding scope 

Of comprehension and of faculty. 

I felt the bud of being in me burst 
With full, unfolding petals to a rose. 



Kathrina. 19 

And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene. 
By sudden insight of myself I knew 
That I was greater than the scene, — that deep 
Within my nature was a wondrous world, 
Broader than that I gazed on, and informed 
With a diviner beauty, — that the things 
I saw were but the types of those I held. 
And that above them both, High Priest and King, 
I stood supreme, to choose and to combine. 
And build from that within me and without 
New forms of life, with meaning of my own. 
And there alone, upon the mountain-top, 
Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head 
Beneath the chrismal light, and felt my soul 
Baptized and set apart to poetry. 

The spell of inspiration lingered not ; 

But ere it passed, I knew my destiny — 

The passion and the portion of my life : 

Though, with the new-born consciousness of powet 

And organizing and creative skill. 

There came a sense of poverty — a sense 

Of power untrained, of skill without resource, 

Of ignorance of Nature and her laws 

And language and the learning of the schools, 

I could not rise upon my callow wings. 

But felt that I must wait until the years 



20 Katkrina, 

Should give them plumage, and the skill for flight 
Be won by trial. 

Then before me rose 
The long, long years of study, interposed 
Between me and the goal that shone afar ; 
But with them rose the courage to surmount, 
And I was girt for toil. 

Then, for the first, 
My eye and spirit that had drunk the whole 
Wide vision, grew discriminate, and traced 
The crystal river pouring from the North 
Its twinkling tide, and winding down the vale, 
Till, doubling in a serpent coil, it paused 
Before the chasm that parts the frontal spurs 
Of Tom and Holyoke ; then in wreathing light 
Sped the swart rocks, and sought the misty South. 
Across the meadows — carpet for the gods. 
Woven of ripening rye and greening maize 
And rosy clover-blooms, and spotted o'er 
With the black shadows of the feathery elms — 
Northampton rose, half hidden in her trees, 
Lifted above the level of the fields. 
And noiseless as a picture. 

At my feet 
The ferry-boat, diminished to a toy, 



Kathrina. 21 

With automatic diligence conveyed 

Its puppet passengers between the shores 

That hemmed its enterprise ; and one low barge, 

With white, square sail, bore northward languidly 

The slow and scanty commerce of the stream. 

Eastward, upon another fertile stretch 
Of meadow-sward and tilth, embowered in elms, 
Lay the twin streets, and sprang the single spire 
Of Hadley, where the hunted regicides 
Securely lived of old, and strangely died ; 
And eastward still, upon the last green step 
From which the Angel of the Morning Light 
Leaps to the meadow-lands, fair Amherst sat, 
Capped by her many-windowed colleges; 
While from his outpost in the rising North, 
Bald with the storms and ruddy with the suns 
Of the long eons, stood old Sugarloaf, 
Gazing with changeless brow upon a scene, 
Changing to fairer beauty evermore. 

Save of the river and my pleasant home, 
I knew not then the names and history 
Borne by these visions ; but upon my brain 
Their forms were graved in lines indelible 
As, on the rocks beneath my feet, the prints 
Of life in its first motion. Later years 



22 ' Kathrina. 

Renewed the picture, and its outlines filled 

With fair associations, — wrought the past 

And living present into fadeless wreaths 

That crowned each mound and mount, and town and 

tower, 
The king of teeming memories. Nor could 
I guess with faintest foresight of the life 
Which, in the years before me, I should weave 
Of mingled threads of pleasure and of pain 
Into these scenes, until not one of all 
Could meet my eye, or touch my memory. 
Without recalling an experience 
That drank the sweetest ichor of my veins 
Or crowded them with joy, 

At length I turned 
From the wide survey, and with pleased surprise 
Detected, nestling at the mountain's foot. 
The cottage I had left ; and, on the lawn, 
Two forms of life that flitted to and fro. 
I knew that they had missed me ; so I sought 
The passage I had climbed, and, with the lamb 
Still fastened to my wrist, I hasted down. 

Full of the marvels of the hour I sped. 

Leaping from rock to rock, or flying swift 

The smoother slopes, with arms half wings, and feet 



Kathrina. 23 

That only guarded the descent, the while 

My captive led me captive at his will. 

So tense the strain of sinew, so intense 

The mood and motion, that before I guessed. 

The headlong flight was finished, and I walked, 

Jaded and reeking, in the level path 

That led the lambkin home. 

My mother saw, 
And ran to meet me : then for long, still hours, 
Couched in a dim, cool room, I lay and slept. 
When I awoke, I found her at my side. 
Fanning my face, and ready with her smile 
And soothing words to greet me. Then I told. 
With youthful volubility and wild 
Extravagance of figure and of phrase, 
The morning's exploit. 

First she questioned me ; 
But, as I wrought each scene and circumstance 
Into consistent form, she drank my words 
In eager silence ; and within her eyes 
I saw the glow of pride which gravity 
And show of deep concern could not disguise. 
I read her bosom better than she knew. 
I saw that she had made discovery 
Of something unsuspected in her child. 



24 Kathrifia. 

And that, by one I loved, and she the best, 
The fire that burned within me and the power 
That morning called to life, were recognized. 

When I had told my story, and had read 

With kindling pride my praises in her eyes. 

She placed her soft hand on my brow, and said : 

<< My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain height 

In all his little world, and gazed on scenes 

As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. 

I trust he will remember all his life 

That to his best achievement, and the spot 

Nearest to heaven his youthful feet have trod, 

He has been guided by a guileless lamb. 

It is an omen which his mother's heart 

Will treasure with her jewels." 

When the sun 
Of the long summer day hung but an hour 
Above his setting, and the cool West Wind 
Bore from the purpling hills his benison. 
The farewell courtesies of love were given, 
And we set forth for home. 

Not far we fared— 
The river left behind — when, looking back, 
X saw the mountain in the searching light 



Kathrina. 25 

Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride 

In my adventure, I can ne'er forget 

The disappointment and chagrin which fell 

Upon me ; for a change had passed. The steep 

Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun, 

Had left the scene ; and in its place I saw 

A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed, 

Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod. 

Its grand impossibilities and all 

Its store of marvels and of mysteries 

Were flown away, and would not be recalled. 

The mountain's might had entered into me ; 

And, from that fruitful hour, whatever scene 

Nature revealed to me, she never caught 

My spirit humbled by surprise. My thought 

Built higher mountains than I ever found ; 

Poured wilder cataracts than I ever saw ; 

Drove grander storms than ever swept the sky ; 

Pushed into loftier heavens and lower hells 

Than the abysmal reach of light and dark ; 

And entertained me with diviner feasts 

Than ever met the appetite of sense. 

And poured me wine of choicer vintages 

Than fire the hearts of kings. 

The frolic-flame 
Which in the morning kindled in my veins 



26 Kathrina. 

Had died away ; and at my mother's side 

I walked in quiet mood, and gravely spoke 

Of the great future. With a tender quest 

My mother probed my secret wish, and heard, 

With silence new and strange respectfulness, 

The revelation of my plans. I felt 

In her benign attention to my words ; 

In her suggestions, clothed with gracious phrase 

To win my judgment ; and in all those shades 

Of mien and manner which a mother's love 

Inspires so quickly when the form it nursed 

Becomes a staff in its caressing hand. 

She had made space for me, and placed her life 

In new relations to my own. I knew 

That she who through my span of tender years 

Had counselled me, had given me privilege 

Within her councils ; and the moment came 

I learned that in the converse of that hour, 

The appetency of maternity 

For manhood in its offspring, had laid hold 

Of the fresh growth in me, and feasted well 

Its gentle passion. 

Ere we reached our home, 
The plans for study were matured, and I, 
Who, with an aptitude beyond my years. 
Had gathered learning's humbler rudiments 



Kathrina. 2J 

From her to whom I owed my earliest words, 

Was, when another day should rise, to pass 

To rougher teaching, and society 

Of the rude youth whose wild and boisterous ways 

Had scared my childish life. 

I nerved my heart 
To meet the change ; and all the troubled night 
I tossed upon my pillow, filled with fears. 
Or fired with hot ambitions ; shrinking oft 
With girlish sensitiveness from the lot 
My manly heart had chosen ; rising oft 
Above my cowardice, well panoplied 
By fancy to achieve great victories 
O'er those whose fellows I should be. 

At last. 
The dawn looked in upon me, and I rose 
To meet its golden coming, and the life 
Of golden promise whose wide-open doors 
Waited my feet. 

The lingering morning hours 
Seemed days of painful waiting, as they fell 
In slowly filling numbers from the tower 
Of the old village church ; but when, at length. 
My eager feet had touched the street, and turned 



28 Kathrina. 

To climb the goodly eminence where he 

In whose profound and stately pages live 

His country's annals, ruled his youthful realm, 

My heart grew stern and strong ; and nevermore 

Did doubt of excellence and mastery 

Drag down my soaring courage, or disturb 

My purposes and plans. 

What boots it here 
To tell with careful chronicle the life 
Of my novitiate ? Up the graded months 
My feet rose slowly, but with steady step, 
To tall and stalwart manliness of frame, 
And ever rising and expanding reach 
Of intellection and the power to call 
Forth from the pregnant nothingness of words 
The sphered creations of my chosen art. 
What boots it to recount my victories 
Over my fellows, or to tell how all. 
Contemptuous at first, became at length 
Confessed inferiors in every strife 
When brain or brawn contended? Victories 
Were won too easily to bring me pride. 
And only bred contempt of the low pitch 
And lower purpose of the power which strove 
So feebly and so clumsily. When won. 
They fed my mother's passion, and she praised; 



Katkrina, 29 

And her delight was all the boon they brought. 
My fierce ambition, ever reaching up 
To higher fields and nobler combatants, 
Trampled its triumphs underneath its feet ; 
And in my heart of hearts I pitied her 
To whose deep hunger of maternal pride 
They bore ambrosial ministry. 

In all 

These years of doing and development, 

My heart was haunted by a bitter pain. 

In every scene of pleasure, every hour 

That lacked employment, every moment's lull 

Of toil or study, its familiar hand 

Was raised aloft, to smite me with its pang. 

From month to month, from year to year, I saw 

That she who bore me, and to whom I owed 

The meek and loyal reverence of a child, 

Was changing places with me, and that she — 

Dependent, trustful and subordinate — 

Deferred to me in all things, and in all 

Gave me the parent's place and took the child's. 

She waited for my coming like a child ; 

She ran to meet and greet me like a child ; 

She leaned on me for guidance and defence, 

And lived in me, and by me, like a child. 

If I were absent long beyond my wont, 



30 Kathrina. 

She yielded to distresses and to tears ; 
And when I came, she flew into my arms 
With childish impulse of delight, or chid 
With weak complainings my delay. 

By these. 
And by a thousand other childish ways, 
I knew disease was busy with her life, 
Working distempers in her heart and brain. 
And driving her for succor to my strength. 
The change was great in her, though slowly wrought, — 
Though wrought so slowly that my thought and life 
Had been adjusted to it, but for this : — 
One dismal night, a trivial accident 
Had kept me from my home beyond the hour 
At which my promise stood for my return. 
Arriving at the garden gate, I paused 
To catch a glimpse of the accustomed light, 
Through the cold mist that wrapped me, but in vain. 
Only one window glimmered through the gloom, 
Through whose uncurtained panes I dimly saw 
My mother in her chamber. She was clad 
In the white robe of rest ; but to and fro 
She crossed the light, sometimes with hands pressed 

close 
Upon her brow, sometimes raised up toward heaven. 
As if in deprecation or despair ; 



Kathrina. 31 

And through the strident soughing of the elm 
I heard her voice, still musical in woe, 
Wailing and calling. 

With a noiseless step 
I reached the door, and, with a noiseless key, 
Turned back the bolt, and stood within. I could 
Have called her to my arms, and quelled her fears 
By one dear word, and yet, I spoke it not. 
I longed to learn her secret, and to know 
In what recess of history or heart 
It hid, and wrought her awful malady. 

Not long I waited, when I heard her voice 
Wail out again in wild, beseeching prayer, — 
Her voice so sweet and soulful, that it seemed 
As if a listening fiend could not refuse 
Such help as in him lay, although her tongue 
Should falter to articulate her pain. 

I heard her voice — O God ! I heard her words ! 

Not bolts of burning from the vengeful sky 

Had scathed or stunned me more. I shook like one 

Powerless within the toils of some great sin. 

Or some o'ermastering passion ; or like one 

Whose veins turn ice at onset of the plague. 

** O God," she said, ** my Father and my Friend I 



32 Kathrina. 

Spare him to me, and save me from myself! 

!^ if thou help me not — if thou forsake — 

This hand which thou hast made, will take the life 
Thou mad'st the hand to feed. I cling to him, 
My son,— ^my boy. If danger come to him, 
No one is left to save me from this crime. 
Thou knowest, O ! my God, how I have striven 
To quench the awful impulse ; how, in vain. 
My prayers have gone before thee, for release 
From the foul demon who would drive my soul 
To crime that leaves no space for penitence ! 
O ! Father ! Father ! Hear me when I call ! 
Hast thou not made me? Am I not thy child? 
Why, why this mad, mysterious desire 
To follow him I loved, by the dark door 
Through which he forced his passage to the realm 
That death throws wide to all ? O why must I, 
A poor, weak woman — '* 

I could hear no more, 
But dropped my dripping cloak, and, with a voice. 
Toned to its tenderest cadence, I pronounced 
The sweet word, " mother ! " 

Her excess of joy 
Burst in a cry, and in a moment's space 

1 sat within her room, and she, my child. 



Kathrina. 33 

Was sobbing in my arms. I spoke no word. 

But sat distracted with my tenderness 

For her who threw herself. upon my heart 

In perfect trust, and bitter thoughts of Him 

Whose succor, though importunately sought 

In piteous pleadings by a gentle saint, 

Was grudgingly withheld. Her closing words : 

" O why must I, a poor, weak woman — " rang 

Through every chamber of my tortured soul. 

And called to conclave and rebellion all 

The black-browed passions thitherto restrained. 

Ay, why should she, who only sought for God, 

Be given to a devil ? Why should she 

Who begged for bread be answered with a stone? 

Ay, why should she whose soul recoiled from sin 

As from a fiend, find in her heart a fiend 

To urge the sin she hated ? — questions all 

The fiends within me answered as they would. 

O God ! O Father ! How I hated thee ! 

Nay, how within my angry soul I dared 

To curse thy sacred name ! 

Then other thoughts — • 
Thoughts of myself and of my destiny — 
Succeeded. Who and what was I ? A youth, 
Doomed by hereditary taint to crime, — 



34 Kathrina. 

A youth whose every artery and vein 
Was doubly charged with suicidal blood. 
When the full consciousness of what I was 
Possessed my thought, and I gazed down the abyss 
God had prepared for me, I shrank aghast ; 
And there in silence, with an awful oath 
I dare not write, I swore my will was mine, 
And mine my hand ; and that, though all the fiends 
That cumber hell and overrun the earth 
Should spur the deadly impulse of my blood. 
And heaven withhold the aid I would not ask ; 
Though woes unnumbered should beset my life. 
And reason fall, and uttermost despair 
Hold me a hopeless prisoner in its glooms, . 
I would resist and conquer, and live out 
My complement of years. My bosom burned 
With fierce defiance, and the angry blood 
Leaped from my heart, and boomed within my brain 
With throbs that stunned me, though each fiery thrill 
Was charged with tenderness for her whose head 
^Was pillowed on its riot. 

Long I sat — 
How long, I know not — but at last the sad. 
Hysteric sobs and suspirations ceased, 
Or only at wide intervals recurred ; 
And then I rose, and to her waiting bed 



Kathrina. 3 5 

Led my doomed mother. With a cheerful voice — 
Cheerful as I could summon — and a kiss, 
I bade her a good night and pleasant dreams ; 
And then, across the hall, I sought my room 
Where neither sleep nor dream awaited me, 
But only blasphemous, black thoughts, and strife 
With God and Destiny. 

I saw it all : 
The lamp that from my mother's window beamed. 
Illumined other nights and other storms, 
And by its lurid light revealed to me 
The secrets of a life. Her sudden pangs, 
Her brooding woes, her terrors when alone, 
The strange surrender of her will to mine. 
Her hunger for my presence, and her fear 
That by some slip of fortune she should lose 
Her hold on me, were followed to their home — 
To her poor heart, that fluttered every hour 
With conscious presence of an enemy 
That would not be expelled, and strove to spill 
The life it spoiled. 

From that eventful night 
She was not left alone. I called a friend, 
A cheerful lady, whose companionship 
Was music, medicine and rest ; and she, 



36 Kathrina» 

Wanting a home, and with a ready wit 
Learning my mother's need and my desire, 
Assumed the place of matron in the house ; 
And, in return for what we gave to her, 
Gave us herself. 

My mother's confidence. 
By her self-confidence, she quickly won ; 
And thus, though sadly burdened at my heart, 
I found one burden lifted from my hands. 
More liberty of movement. and of toil 
I needed ; for the time was drawing near 
When I should turn my feet toward other halls, 
To seek maturer study, and complete 
The work of culture faithfully begun. 

Into my mother's ear I breathed my plans 
With careful words. The university 
Was but a short remove — a morning's walk — • 
Away from her ; and ever at her wish — 
Nay, always when I could — I would return ; 
And separation would but sweeten love, 
And joy of meeting recompense the pain 
Of parting and of absence. 

She was calm 
And leaning in her thought upon her friend. 



Kathrina. 37 

Gave her consent. So, on a summer day, 
I kissed her faded cheek, and turned from home 
To seek the college halls that I had seen 
From boyhood's mount of vision. 

Of the years 
Passed there in study — of the rivalries, 
The long, stern struggles for pre-eminence. 
The triumphs hardly won, but won at last 
Beyond all cavil, matters not to tell. 
It was my grief that while I gained and grew. 
My mother languished momently, and lost, — 
A grief that turned to poison in my blood. 
The college prayers were mummeries to me, 
And with disdainful passion I repelled 
All Christian questionings of heart and life^ 
By old and young. 

I stood, I moved alone. 
I sought no favors, took no courtesies 
With grateful grace, and nursed my haughty pride. 
The men who kneeled and gloomed, and prayed and 

sang. 
Seemed but a brood of dullards, whom contempt 
Would honor overmuch. No tender spot 
Was left within my indurated heart. 
Save that which moved with ever-melting ruth 



38 Kathrina. 

For her whose breast had nursed me, and whose love 
Had given my hfe the only happiness 
It yet had known. 

1 

With her I kept my pledge 
With more than faithful punctuality. 
Few weeks passed by in all those busy years 
In which I did not walk the way between 
The college and my home, and bear to her 
Such consolation as my presence gave. 
In truth, my form was as familiar grown 
To all the rustic dwellers on the road 
As I had been a post-boy. 

Little joy 
These visits won for me — little beyond 
That which I found in bearing joy to her — 
For every year marked on her slender frame, 
And on her cheeks, and on her failing brain. 
Its record of decadence. I could see 
That she was sinking into helplessness, 
And that too soon her inoffensive soul, 
With all its sweet affections, would go down 
To hopeless wreck and darkness. 

From her friend 
I learned that still the burden of her prayer 



Kathrina. 39 

Was, that she might be saved from one great sin — 
The sin of self-destruction. Every hour 
This one petition struggled from her heart, 
To reach the ear of heaven ; yet never help 
Came down in answer to her cry. 

The Spring 
That ushered in my closing college-year 
Came up the valley on her balmy wings, 
And Winter fled away, and left no trace, 
Save here and there a snowy drift, to show 
Where his cold feet had rested in their flight. 
But one still night, within the span of sleep, 
A shivering winter cloud that wandered late 
Shook to the frosty ground its inch of rime. 
So, when the morning rose, the earth was white ; 
And shrubs and trees, and roofs and rocks and walls, 
Fulgent with downy crystals, made a world 
To which a breath were ruin ; and a breath 
Wrecked it for me, and, by a few sad words, 
Blotted the sunlit splendor from my sight. 

As I looked out upon the scene, and mused 
Of her to whom I hoped it might impart 
Some healthy touch of joy, I heard the beat 
Of hoofs upon the trackless blank, and saw 
A horseman speeding up the avenue. 



40 Katkrina. 

I raised my sash (I knew he came for me), 
And faltered forth my question. From his breast 
He^ drew a folded slip : dismounting then, 
He stooped and pressed the missive in a mass 
Of clinging snow, and tossed it to my hand. 
I closed the window, burst the frosty seal, 
And read : "Your mother cannot long survive : 
Come home to her to-day." I did not pause 
To break the fast of night, but rushing forth, 
I followed close the messenger's return. 

It was a morning, such as comes but once 
In all the Spring, — so still and beautiful, 
So full of promise, so exhilarant 
With frost and fire, in earth and air, that life 
Had been a brimming joy but for the scene 
That waited for my eyes — the scene of death — 
From which imagination staggered back, 
And every sensibility recoiled. 

The smoke from distant sugar-camps rolled up 

Through the still ether in columnar coils — 

Blue pillars of a bluer dome — and all 

The resonant air was full of sounds of Spring. 

The sheep were bleating round their empty ricks ; 

Horses let loose were calling from afar. 

And winning fierce replies ; the axeman's blows 



Kathrina. 41 

Fell nimbly at the piles which wintry woods 
Had lent to summer stores ; while far and faint, 
The rhythmic ululations of the hound 
On a fresh trail, upon the mountain's side, 
Added their strange wild music to the morn. 

The beauty and the music caught my sense. 
But woke within my sick and sinking heart 
No motion of response. I walked as one 
Condemned to dungeon-glooms might walk 
Through shouts of mirth and festal pageantry, 
Hearing and seeing all, yet over all 
Hearing the clank of chains and clash of bars, 
And seeing but the reptiles of his cell. 

How I arrived at home, without fatigue. 
Without a thought of effort — onward borne 
By one absorbing and impelling thought — 
As one within a minute's mete may slide. 
O'er leagues of sunny dreamland in a dream. 
By magic or by miracle — I found 
No time to question. 

At my mother's door 
I stood and listened : soon I heard my name 
Pronounced within in spiteful whisperings. 
I raised the latch, and met her burning eyes. 



42 Kaihrina. 

She stared a wild, mad stare, then raised herself, 
And in weak fury poured upon my head 
The vials of her wrath. I stood like stone. 
Without the power to speak, the while she rained 
Her maledictions on me, and in words 
Fit only for the damned, accused my life 
Of crimes my language could not name, and deeds 
Which only outcast wretches know. 

At length, 
I gained my tongue, and tried to take her hand ; 
But with a shriek which cut me like a knife 
She shrank from me, and hid her quivering face 
Within her pillow. 

Then I turned away. 
And sought the room where oft in better days 
We both had knelt together at my bed, 
And, making fast my door, I threw myself 
Prone on the precious couch, and gave to grief 
My strong and stormy nature. All the day 
With bursts of passion I bewailed my loss, 
Or lay benumbed in feeling and in thought, 
Tasting no food, and shutting out my soul 
From all approach of human sympathy, 
Till the light waned, and through the leafless boughs 
Of the old elm I caught the sheen of stars. 



Kathrina. 43 

Then sleep descended — such a sleep as comes 
To uttermost exhaustion, — sleep with dreams 
Wild as the waking fantasies of her 
Whose screams and incoherent words gave voice 
To all their phantom brood. 

At length I woke. 
The house was still as death ; and yet I heard, 
Or thought I heard, the touch of crafty feet 
Upon the carpet, creeping by my door. 
It passed away, away ; and then a pause, 
Still and presageful as the breathless calm 
On which the storm-cloud mounts the pallid West, 
Succeeded. I could hear the parlor-clock 
Counting the beaded silence, and my bed. 
Rustling beneath my breathing and my pulse. 
Was sharply crepitant, and gave me pain. 

An hour passed by (it loitered like an age), 

And then came hurried words and hasty fall 

Of footsteps in the passage. I could hear 

Screams, sobs, and whispered calls and closing doorsj 

And heavy feet that jarred my bed, and shook 

The windows of my room. I did not stir : 

I dared not stir, but lay in deathly dread, 

Waiting the sad denouement. Soon it came. 

A man approached my door, and tried the latch; 



44 Kathrina. 

Then knocked, and called. I knew the kindly voice 
Of the physician, and threw back the bolt 
Then by the light he held before his face 
I read the fact of death. 

I took his arm, 
And, as I feebly staggered down the stairs, 
He broke to me with lack of useless words 
The awful truth. . . . The old familiar tale : 
She counterfeited sleep : the nurses both. 
Weary with over-watching in their chairs. 
Under the cumbrous stillness, slept indeed ; 
And when she knew it, she escaped ; and then 
She did the deed to which for many years 
She had been predisposed. Perhaps I knew 
The nature of the case : perhaps I knew 
My father went that way. I clutched his arm : 
There was no need of words. 

The parlor door 
Stood open, and a throng of silent friends, 
Choking with tears, gazed on a silent form 
Shrouded in snowy linen. They made way 
For me and my companion. On my knees 
I clasped the precious clay, and pouring forth 
My pitying love and tenderness for her, 
I gave indignant voice to my complaint 



Kathrina. ^ 45 

Against the Being who, to all her prayers 
For succor and security, had turned 
A deaf, dead ear and a repelling hand. 

To what blaspheming utterance I gave 

My raving passion, may the God I cursed 

Forbid my shrinking memory to recall ! 

I now remember only that when drawn 

By strong, determined hands away from her, 

The room was vacant. Every pitying friend 

Had flown my presence and the room, to find 

Release of sensibility from words 

That roused their superstitious souls to fear 

That God would smite me through the blinding smoke 

Of my great torment. 

Silence, for the rest ! 
It was a dream ; and only as a dream 
Do I remember it : the coffined form, 
The funeral — a concourse of the town — 
The trembling prayer for me, the choking sobs, 
The long procession, the descending clods, 
The slow return, articulated all 
With wild, mad words of mine, and gentle speech 
Of those who sought to curb or comfort me — 
All was a dream, from which I woke at length 
With heart as dead as her's who slept. The heavens 

• 



46 Kaihrhia. 

Were brass above me, and the breathing world 

Was void and meaningless. When told to pray, 

This was the logic of my heart's reply : 

If God be Love, not such is He to me 

Nor such to mine. If He heard not the voice 

Of such a lovely saint as she I mourned, 

Mine would but rouse His vengeance. 

So I closed 
With Reason's hand the adamantine doors 
Which only Faith unlocks, and shut my soul 
Away from God, the warder of a gang 
Of passions that in darkness stormed or gloomed 5 
And with each other fought, or on themselves 
Gnawed for the nourishment which I denied. 



COMPLAINT. 

River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee : 
River, thou dost never give a word of peace to me ! 
Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to eacl] 

air that blows, 
Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing foi 

repose. 

Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault to find 

with you ; 
So the breezes cross and toss you, so your cups are 

filled with dew. 
Matters not though sighs give motion to the ocean of 

your breath ; 
Matters not though you are filling with the chilling 

drops of death ! 

Birds of song and beauty, lo ! I charge you all with 

blame : — 
Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me, you are 

still the same. 



48 Kathrina. 

I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that avails 
From your lonely note, that only speaks of joy that 
never fails. 



O ! indifference of Nature to the fact of human 

pain ! 
Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her hand 

in vain ; 
Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks - 

the sea, 
Nor a flower from wreaths of Summer breathes in 

sympathy with me. 

O ! the rigid rock is frigid, though its bed be sum- 
mer mould, 

And the diamond glitters ever in the grasp of change- 
less gold ; 

And the laws that bring the seasons swing their cycles 
as they must, 

Though the ample road they trample blind the eyes 
with human dust. 

Moons will wax in argent glory, though man wane to 

hopeless gloom ; 
Stars will sparkle in their splendor, though he darkle 

to his doom ; 



Kathrina, 49 

Winds of heaven he calls to fan him ban him with an 

icy chill, 
And the shifting crowds of clouds go drifting o'er him 

as they will. 

Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone, 
That by law of prime relation holds these voices as 

its own, — 
The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise through 

Nature's words, 
From the ocean's thundrous rolling to the trolling of 

the birds. 

Spirit, O ! my spirit ! Is it thou art out of tune ? 
Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in 

its June ? 
Hast thou dropped thy part in nature ? Hast thou 

touched another key ? 
Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot, wait 

for thee ? 

Spirit, thou art left alone — alone on waters wild ; 
For God is gone, and Love is dead, and Nature 

spurns her child. 
Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below and clouds 

above. 
And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven 

and thy dove. 
4 



PART II. 

LOVE. 

As from a deep, dead sea, by drastic lift 

Of pent volcanic fires, the dripping form 

Of a new island swells to meet the air. 

And, after months of idle basking, feels 

The prickly feet of life from countless germs 

Creeping along its sides, and reaching up 

In fern and flower to the life-giving sun, 

So from my grief I rose, and so at length 

I felt new life returning : so I felt 

The life already wakened stretching forth 

To stronger light and purer atmosphere. 

But most I longed for human love — the source 

(So sadly closed), from which my life had drawn 

Its sweetest inspiration and reward. 

I could not pray, nor could my spirit win 

From sights and sounds of nature the response 

It vaguely yearned for. They assailed my sense 

With senseless seeming of the hum and whirl 

Of vast machinery, whose motive power 



Kathrina. 51 

Sought its own ends, or wrought for ministry 
To other life than mine. 



I could stand still, 
And see the trains sweep by; could hear the roar 
Of thundering wheels ; could watch the pearly plumes 
That floated where they flew ; could catch a glimpse 
Of thousand happy faces at the glass ; 
But felt that all their freighted life and wealth 
Were nought to me, and moved toward other souls 
In other latitudes. 

A year had flown, 
And more, when, on a Sunday morn in June, 
I wandered out, to wear away the hours 
Of growing restlessness. The worshippers 
Were thronging to the service of the day, 
And gave me sidelong stare, or shunned me quite ; 
As if they knew me for a reprobate, 
And feared a taint of death. 

I took the road 
That eastward cleft the town, and sought the bridge 
That spanned the river, reaching which I crossed. 
Then deep within the stripes of springing corn 
I found the shadow of an elm, and lay 
Stretched on the downy grass for listless hours, 



$2 Kathrma. 

Dreaming of days gone by, or turning o'er 
With careless hand the pages of a book 
I had brought with me. 



Tired at length I rose, 
And, touched by some light impulse, moved along 
The old, familiar road. I loitered on 
In a blind reverie, nor marked the while 
The furlongs or the time, until the spell 
In a full burst of music was dissolved. 
I startled as one startles from a dream, 
And saw the church of Hadley, from whose doors, 
Open to summer air, the choral hymn 
Poured out its measured tides, and rose and fell 
Upon the silence in broad cadences, 
As from a far, careering sea, the waves 
Lift into silver swells the sleeping breasts 
Of land-locked bays. 

I heard the sound of flutes 
And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord 
With happy human voices, — and one voice — 
A woman's or an angel's — that compelled 
My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold, 
Through all the web of sound, I followed it 
Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy, 



Kathrina. 53 

And by no act of will, I joined my voice 
To that one voice of melody, and sang. 

The heart is wiser than the intellect, 

And works with swifter hands and surer feet 

Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort 

To reason, in my heart I knew that she 

Who sang had suffered— knew that she had grieved, 

Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death, 

And ranged the scale of passions till her soul 

Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy ;— 

Nay, more than this : that she had found at last 

Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide 

She floated while she sang. This was the key 

That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my 

eyes 
With tender tears, and touched to life again 
My better nature. 

When the choral closed, 
And the last chord in silence lapsed away, 
I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck 
Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in, — 
Not (shall it be confessed ?) to find the God 
At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng ; 
But, through a voice, to follow to its source 
The influence that moved me. 



54 Kathrina. 

I was late ; 
And many eyes looked up as I advanced 
Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned 
My face to all the faces in the house. 
I scanned the simpering girls within the choir, 
But found not what I sought ; and then my eyes 
With rambling inquisition swept the pews. 
Pausing at every maiden face in vain. 
One head, that crowned a tall and slender form, 
Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail 
Before her ; and, although I caught no glimpse 
Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there. 
And there the voice. 

It was Communion Day. 
The simple table underneath the desk 
Was draped with linen, on whose snow was spread 
The feast of love — the vases filled with wine, 
The separated bread and circling cups. 
The venerable pastor had come down 
From his high pulpit, and assumed the seat 
Of presidence, and, with benignant eyes, 
Sat smiling on his flock. The deacons all 
Rose from their pews — four old, brown-handed men,. 
With frosty hair — and took the ancient chairs 
That flanked the table. All the house was still 
Save here and there the rustle of a silk 



Kathrina. 55 

Or folding of a fan ; and over all 
Brooded the dove of peace. I had no part 
In the fair spectacle, but I could feel 
That it was beautiful and sweet as heaven. 
When the old pastor rose, with solemn mien, 
I looked to see the lady lift her head ; 
But still she bowed ; and then I heard these words : 
*' The person who unites with us to-day- 
Will take her place before me in the aisle. 
To give her answer to our creed, and speak 
The pledges of our covenant." 

Then first 
I saw her face. With modest grace she rose. 
Lifted her hat, and gave it to the hand 
Of a companion, and within the aisle 
Stood out alone. My heart beat thick and fast 
With vision of her perfect loveliness, 
And apprehension of the heroism 
That shone within her eyes, and made her act 
A Christ-like sacrifice. 

O ! eyes of blue ! 
O ! lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose ! 
O ! brow serene, enthroned in holy thought ! 
O ! soft, brown sweeps of hair ! O ! shapely grace 
Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white ! 



$6 Kathrina. 

Why, in your rapt unconsciousness of me 
And all around you — in the presence-hall 
Of God and angels — at the marriage -feast 
Of Jesus and his chosen — did my eyes 
Profane the hour with other feast than yours ? 

I heard the "You Believe" of the old creed 

Of puritan New England ; and I heard 

The old "You Promise" of its covenant. 

Her bow of reverent assent to all 

The knotty dogmas, and her silent pledge 

Of faithfulness and fellowship, I saw. 

These formularies were the frame of oak — 

Gnarled, strongly carved, and swart with age and 

use — 
Which held the lovely picture of my saint, 
And showed her saintliness and beauty well. 

At close of the recital and response, 

The pastor raised the plain, baptismal bowl. 

And she, the maiden devotee, advanced 

And knelt before him. Lifting then her eyes 

To him and heaven, with look of earnest faith 

And perfect consecration, she received 

Upon her brow the water from his hand. 

The trickling chrism shone on her cheeks like tears. 

The while he joined her lovely name with God's : 



Kathrina. 57 

"KATHRINA, I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME 

Of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen ! " 

Still kneeling like a saint before a shrine, 

She closed her eyes. Then lifting up toward heaven 

His hands, the pastor prayed, — prayed that her soul 

Might be forever kept from stain and sin ; 

That Christ might live in her, and through her life 

Shine into other souls ; might give her strength 

To master all temptation, and to keep 

The vows that day assumed ; might comfort her 

In every sorrow, and, in death's dread hour, 

Bear her in hopeful triumph to the rest 

Prepared for those who love him. 

All this scene 
I saw through blinding tears. The poetry 
That like a soft aureola embraced 
Within its cope those two contrasted forms ; 
The eager observation and the hush 
That reigned through all the house ; the breathless 

spell 
Of sweet solemnity and tender awe 
Which held all hearts, when she, The Beautiful, 
Received the sign of marriage to The Good, 
O'erwhelmed me, and I wept. Shall I confess 
That in the struggle to repress my tears 
3* 



58 Kathrina, 

And hold my swelling heart, I grudged her gift, 
And felt that, by the measure she had risen. 
She had put space between herself and me, 
And quenched my hope ? 

She stood while courtesy 
Of formal Christian welcome was bestowed ; 
Then straightway sought her seat, as though no eyes 
But those of One unseen observed her steps. 
I saw her taste the sacramental bread. 
And touch the silver chalice to her lips ; 
And while she thought of Him, The Spotless One 
Whose flesh and blood were symboled to her heart, 
And worshipped in her thought, I ate and drank 
Her virgin beauty — with what guilty sense 
Of profanation ! 

Last, the closing hymn 
Gave me her voice again ; and this I drank ; 
Nay, this invaded and pervaded me. 
Its subtile search found out the sleeping chords 
Of sympathy ; and on the bridge of sound 
It built between our souls, I crossed, and saw 
Into the depths of purity and love — 
The full, pathetic power of womanhood — 
From which the structure sprang. Just once 
I caught her eyes. She blushed with consciousness 



Kathrina. 59 

Of my strong gaze ; but paused not in her hymn 
Till she had given to every word the wings 
That bore it, like a singing bird, toward heaven. 

The benediction fell ; and then the throng 

Passed slowly out. I was the last to go. 

I saw a man whom I had known, and shrank 

Both from his greetings and his questionings. 

One thing I learned : that she who thus had joined 

This cluster of disciples was not born 

And reared among their number : that was plain. 

I saw it in her bearing and her dress ; 

In that unconsciousness of self that comes 

Of gentle breeding, and society 

Of gentle men and women ; in the ease 

With which she bore the awkward deference 

Of those who spoke with her adown the aisle ; 

In distant and admiring gaze of men, 

And the cold scrutiny of village girls 

Who passed for belles. 

I stood upon the steps — 
The last who left the door — and there I found 
The lady and her friend. The elder turned, 
And with a cordial greeting took my hand, 
And rallied me on my forgetfulness. 
Her eyes, her smile, her manner and her voice 



6o Kathrina. 

Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke 
Her name. 

She was my mother's early friend, 
Whose face I had not seen in all the years 
That had flown over us, since, from her door, 
I chased her lamb to where I found — myself. 
She spoke with tender words and swimming eyes 
Of her I mourned, and questioned me like one 
Who felt a mother's anxious interest 
In all my cares and plans. Why did I not 
In all my maunderings and wanderings 
Remember I had friends, and visit them — 
Not missing her ? Her niece was with her now ; 
Would live with her, perhaps — ('' a lovely girl ! " — 
In whisper) ; and they both would so much like 
To see me at their house ! (whisper again : 
"Poor child! I fear it is but dull for her, 
Here in the country.") Then with sudden thought-— 
"Kathrina!" 

With a blushing smile she turned 
(She had heard every word), and then her aunt — 
Her voluble, dear aunt — presented me 
As an old friend — the son of an old friend — 
Whose eyes had promised he would visit them, 
Although, in her monopoly of speech, 



Kathrina. 6i 

She had quite shut him from the chance to say 
So much as that. 

I caught the period 
Quick as it dropped, and spoke the happiness 
I had in meeting them, and gave the pledge — 
No costly thing to give— to end my walks 
On pleasant nightfalls at the little house 
Under the mountain. 

I had spoken more, 
But then the carriage, with its single horse, 
For which they waited, rattled to the steps, 
And we descended. To their lofty seats 
I helped the pair, and in my own I held 
For one sweet moment, hand of all the hands 
In the wide world I longed to clasp the most. 
A courteous *' Good Evening, Sir," was all I won 
From its possessor ; but her lively aunt 
With playful menace shook her fan at me. 
And said : " Remember, Paul ! " and rode away. 

"A worldly woman. Sir!" growled a grum throat. 
I turned, and saw the sexton. Query: ''which?" 
" I mean the aunt." ..." And what about the 

niece ? " 
"Too fine for common people!" (with a shrug). 



62 Kathrina. 

" I think she is," I said, with quiet voice. 
And turned my feet toward home. 

A pious girl ! 
And what could I be to a pious girl ? 
What could she be to me ? Weak questions, these. 
And vain perhaps ; but such as young men ask 
On slighter spur than mine. 

She had bestowed 
Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven, 
And had been nobly earnest in her gift. 
Before all lovers she had chosen Christ ; 
Before all idols, God ; before all wish 
And will of loving man, her heart and hand 
Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife ? 
Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth 
Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved ? 
Would she not leave me for a Sunday School 
Before the first moon's wane ? Would she not seek 
The cant and snuffle of conventicles 
" At early candle-light," and sing her hymns 
To drivelling boors, and cheat me of her songs ? 
Would she exhaust herself in "doing good" 
After the modern styles — in patching quilts, 
And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts 
To dirty little children — not to speak 



Kathrina. 63 

Of larger work for missionary folk ? 

Would there not come a time (O ! fatefal time !) 

When Dorcas and her host would fill my house, 

And I by courtesy be held at home 

To entertain their twaddle, and to smile, 

While in God's name and lovely Charity's 

They would consume my substance ? Would she not 

Become the stern and stately president 

Of some society, or figure in the list 

Of slim directresses in spectacles ? 

So much for questions : then reflections came. 
These pious women make more careful wives 
Than giddy ones. They do not run away. 
Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would 

heal, 
Broken by such a blow ! The time they give 
To worship and to pious offices 
Defrauds the mirror mainly ; and the gold 
That goes for charity goes not for gems. 

Besides, these pious and believing wives 
Make gentle mothers, who, v/ith self-control 
And patient firmness, train their children well — 
A fact to be remembered. But, alas ! 
They train their husbands too, and undertake 
A mission to their souls, so gently pushed, 



64 Kathrina. 

So tenderly, they may not take offence, 

Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts! 

With such persistence, that they reach the raw 

Before they know it : so it comes to tears 

At last, with comfort in an upper room. 

But then — a seal is sacred to them, and a purse 

Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room 

With shutters and a key ! 

Thus wrapped in thought 
And selfish calculation of the claims 
Of one my peer, or my superior, 
In every personal and moral grace, 
I walked along, till, on my consciousness. 
Flashed the absurdity of my conceits 
And my assumptions, and I laughed outright — 
Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long 
That I was startled. Not for many months 
Had sound of mirth escaped me ; and my voice 
Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips 
Of one long dead had spoken. 

I received 

The token of returning healthfulness 
With warm self-gratulation. I had touched 
The magic hand that held new life for me : 
The cloud was lifted, and the burden gone. 



Kathrinu. 65 

The leaf within my book of fate, that gloomed 
With awful records, washed and blotched by tears — 
Blown by a woman's breath from finger-tips 
They knew not what they did — was folded back; 
And all the next white page held but one word, 
One word of gold and flame — its title-crown — 
That wrought a rosy nimbus for itself; 
And that one word was love. 

The laggard days 
My pride or my propriety imposed 
Upon desire, before my eyes could see 
The object of my new-born passion, passed ; 
And in the low hours of an afternoon. 
Bright with the largess of kingly shower 
Whose chariot-wheels still thundered in the East, 
Leaving the West aflame, I sought the meads. 
And once again, thrilled by foretasted joy, 
Walked toward the mountain. 

While I walked, the rain 
Fell like a veil of gauze between my eyes 
And the blue wall ; and from the precious spot 
That held the object of my thought, there sprang 
An iridal effulgence, faint at first. 
But brightening fast, and leaping to an arch 
That spanned the heavens — a miracle of light ! 



66 Kathrina. 

"There's treasure where the rainbow rests," I said 

Would it evade me, as, for years untold. 

It had evaded every childish dupe 

Whose feet had chased the bright, elusive cheat? 

Would it evade me ? Question that arose, 

And loomed with darker front and huger form 

Than the dark mountain, and more darkly loomed 

And higher rose as the long path grew short I 

Would it evade me ? Like a passing smile 

The rainbow faded from the mountain's face ; 

And Hope's resplendent iris, which illumed 

My question, grew phantasmal, and at length 

Evanished, leaving but a doubtful blur. 

Would it evade me ? Gods ! what wealth or waste 

Of precious life awaited the reply ! 

Was it a coward's shudder that o'erswept 

My frame at thought of possible repulse 

And possible relapse ? 

"Oh! there he comes!" 
I heard the mistress of the cottage say 
Behind a honeysuckle. Did I smile ? 
It was because the fancy crossed me then 
That the announcement was like one which rings 
Over the polar seas, when, from his perch, 
The lookout bruits a long-expected whale! 
Then sweeping the piazza from the spot 



If 



Kathrina. 6/ 

Where with her niece she sat, she hailed me with : 
" So, you are come at last ! How very sad 
These men have so much business ! Tell me how 
You got away ; how soon you must return ; 
Who suffers by your absence ; what the news. 
And whether you are well." 

Brisk medicine 
These words to me, and timely given. They broke 
The spell of fear, and banished my restraint. 
She took my arm, and led me to her niece, 
Who greeted me as if some special grace 
Of courtesy were due, to make amends 
For the familiar badinage her aunt 
Had poured upon me. 

They had come without — 
One with her work, the other with her book — 
To taste the freshness of the evening air, 
Washed of the hot day's dust by rain ; to hear 
The robin's hymn of joy ; and watch the clpuds 
That canopied with gold the sinking sun. 
The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe — 
Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, 
And sweet with life in every fold, I knew — 
A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair 
A sprig of green and white, was lovelier 



f 

68 Kathrina. 

Than sky or landscape ; and her low words fell 
More musically than the robin's hymn. 
So, with my back to other scene and sound, 
I faced the faces, took the proffered chair 
And looked and listened. 

'* Tell us of yourself," 
Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. 
" What are you doing now?" 

" Nothing," I said. 

" And were you not the boy who was to grow 
Into a great, good man, and write fine books, 
And have no end of fame ? " 

The question cut 
Deeper than she intended. The hot blush 
And stammering answer told her of the hurt, 
And tenderly she tried to heal the wound : 
^* I know that you have suffered ; but your hours 
Must not be told by tears. The life that goes 
In unavailing sorrow goes to waste." 

** True," I replied, " but work may not be done 
Without a motive. Never worthy man 
Worked worthily who was not moved by love. 



Kathrina. 69 

When she I loved, and she who loved me died, 
My motive died; and it can never rise 
Till trump of love shall call it from the dust 
To resurrection." 

I spoke earnestly, 
Without a thought that other ears than hers 
Were listening to my words ; but when I looked, 
I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. 
I knew her own experience was touched, 
And that her heart made answer to my own 
In perfect sympathy. 

To change the drift, 
I took her book, and read the title-page : 
" So you like poetry," T said. 

" So well my aunt 
Finds fault with me." 

** You write, perhaps ? " 

" Not I." 

"A happy woman!" I exclaimed; *'in truth. 
The first I ever found affecting art 
Who shunned expression by it. If a girl 
Like painting, she must paint ; if poetry, 
She must write verses. Can you tell me why 



70 . Kathrina. 

(For sex marks no distinction in this thing), 
Men with a taste for art in finest forms 
Cherish the fancy that they may become, 
Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man 
Who never drew a line or struck an arc 
Direct an architect, and spoil his work. 
Because, forsooth ! he likes a tasteful house ! 
He likes a muffin, but he does not go 
Into his kitchen to instruct his cook, — 
Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes. 
But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts 
Which issue from creative potencies 
Does his conceit engage him. He could learn 
The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, 
But never learn to do that one great deed 
Which he essays." 

" 'Tis not a strange mistake — 
These people make " — she answered, thoughtfully. 
*' Art gives them pleasure ; and they honor those 
Whose fieads and hands produce it. If they see 
The length and breadth and beauty of a thought 
Embodied by another, — if they hold 
The taste, the culture, the capacity, 
To measure values in the things of art. 
Why cannot they create ? Why cannot they 
Win to themselves the honor they bestow 



Kathrina. y i 

On those who feed them ? Is it very strange 
That those who know how sweet the gratitude 
Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste 
That gratitude themselves ? " 

''Not strange, perhaps," 
I said, "and yet, it is a sad mistake; 
For countless noble lives have gone to waste 
In work which it inspired." 

Here spoke the aunt : 
** You are a precious pair ; and if you know 
What you are talking of, you know a deal 
More than your elders. By your royal leave, 
I will retire ; for I can lay the cloth 
For kings and. queens though I may fail to know 
Their lore and language. You can eat, I think ; 
And hear a tea-bell, though you hear not me." 
Thus speaking, in her crisp, good-natured way. 
The lady left us. 

When she passed the door, 
And laughter at her jest had had its way, 
I said : " It takes all sorts to make a world." 

*' How many, think you ? Only one, two, three," 
The maiden said. " Here we have all the world 



72 Kathrina. 

In this one cottage — artist, teacher, taught. 

In — not to mar the order of the scale 

For courtesy — yourself, myself, my aunt. 

You are an artist, so my aunt reports ; 

But, as an artist, you are nought to her. 

And now, to broach a petted theory. 

Let me presume too boldly, while I say 

She cannot understand you, though I can ; 

You cannot measure her, though she is wise. 

You have not much for her, and that you have 

You cannot teach her; but I, knowing her, 

Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought 

She will find manna. In the hands of Christ 

The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied; 

And he to his disciples gave the feast — 

They to the multitude. Artists are few, 

Teachers are thousands, and the world is large. 

Artists are nearest God. Into their souls 

He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes 

In fair, articulate forms to bless the world ; 

And yet, these forms may never bless the world 

Except its teachers take them in their hands, 

And give each man his portion." 

As she spoke 
In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt, 
And worshipped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed, 



Kathrina, 73 

Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book 

Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide 

Thridded her temples. I was half amused, 

Half rapt in admiration ; and she saw 

That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused. 

" Your pardon, Sir," she said. " It ill becomes 

A teacher to instruct an artist." 

*'Nay, 
It does become you wondrously," I said 
With light but earnest words. "Pray you go on; 
And pardon all that my unconscious eyes 
Have done to stop you." 

" I have little more 
That I would care to say : you have my thought," 
She answered ; " yet there's very much to say, 
And you should say it." 

" Not I, lady, no : 
A poet is not practical like you, 
Nor sensible like you. You can teach him 
As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think 
He needs instruction quite as much as they 
For whom he writes." 

** That's possible," she sai(^ 
With an arch smile. 

** Will you explain yourself? 



74 Kathrina. 

*' Well — if you wish it — yes : " she made reply. 
** And first, my auditor must know that I 
Believe in inspiration, though he knows 
So much as that already, from my words, — 
Believe that God inspires the poet's soul, — 
That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear 
What in his realm holds finest ministry 
For highest aptitudes and needs of men, 
And skill to mould it into forms of art 
Which shall present it to the world he serves. 
Sometimes the poet writes with fire ; with blood 
Sometimes ; sometimes with blackest ink : 
It matters not. God finds his mighty way 
Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes 
Let in the morning light, and in that light 
Our faces shine with kindled sense of God 
And his unwearied goodness ; but the glass 
Gets little good of it ; nay, it retains 
Its chill and grime beyond the power of light 
To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass 
Had better eyes than he who strode his back, 
And, though the prophet bore the word of God, 
Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul 
Was not a fitting place for psalms like his 
To dwell in over-long, while waiting words. 
If I read rightly. As for the old seers. 
Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life 



Kathrina. 75 

Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt 

Whether they comprehended what they saw, 

Or knew what they recorded. It remains 

For the world's teachers to expound their words ; 

To probe their mysteries ; and relegate 

The truth they hold in blind significance 

Into the fair domains of history 

And human knowledge. Am I understood ? " 

" You are," I answered ; *' and I cannot say 

You flatter me. God takes within his hand 

A thing of his contrivance which we call 

A poet : then he puts it to his lips, 

And speaks his word, and puts it down again — 

The instrument not better and not worse 

For being handled ; — not improved a whit 

In quality, by quality of that 

Which it conveys. Do I report aright? 

Or do you prompt me ? " 

*^You are very apt," 
She said, "at learning, but a little bald 
In statement. Nathless, be it as you say ; 
And we shall see how it is possible 
That poets need instruction quite as much 
As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men 
The brightest geniuses have been ! How weak, 



*j6 Kathrina, 

How mean in character ! how foul in life ! 

How feebly have the best of them retained 

The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed 

In crystal streams from God, the fountain head. 

Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse. 

How many of them have infused the tide 

With tincture of their own impurity. 

To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips. 

And breed diseases in the finest blood ! 

And poets not alone, and not the worst ; 

But painters, sculptors — those whose kingly power 

And aptitude for utterance divine 

Have made them artists : — how have these contemned 

In countless instances the God of Heaven 

Who filled them with his fire! Think you that 

these 
Could compass their achievements of themselves ? 
Can streams surpass their fountains?" 

"Nay," I said, 
In quick response, " Your argument is good ; 
But is the artist nothing? Is he nought 
But an apt tool — a mouth-piece for a voice? 
You make him but the spigot of a cask 
Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups 
To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. 
You magnify your office." 



Kathri7ia, JJ 

" We do all 
Wait upon God for every grace and good," 
She then rejoined. " You take it at first hand, 
And we from yours : the multitude from ours. 
It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills 
Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. 
And if I magnify my office — well ! 
'Tis a great office. What would come of all 
The music of the masters, did not we 
Wait at their doors, to publish to the world 
What God has told them? They would be as mute 
As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, 
An opera, an oratorio, 
In language that the teacher understands, 
And straight the whole world echoes to its strains. 
It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms 
From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs ; 
The halls of art of both the hemispheres 
Resound with its divinest melodies ; 
The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear 
The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp 
Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm ; 
The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys 
Adopt the lighter strains ; and round and round 
A million souls its hovering fancies float, 
Like butterflies above a fair parterre. 
Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last ; 



78 Kathrina. 

And lo ! two petals more on every flower ! 

And this not all; for though the master die, 

The teacher lives forever. On and on, 

Through all the generations, he shall preach 

The beautiful evangel ; — on and on, 

Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years 

That lie prevening the millennium, 

And slid into that broad and open sea, 

He shall sail singing still the songs he learned 

In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er 

To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues 

Are overpast, and argosy and crew 

Ride at their port." 

" True as to facts," I said ; 
"And as to prophecies, most credible; 
But, as an illustration, false, I think. 
That which the voice and instrument may do 
For the composer, types may do for those 
Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ 
In language that the people do not read — 
Is lame in that — and needs interpreters ; 
While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms 
And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. 
Your aunt can read the book within your hand 
As well as you, if she desire, yet finds 
Your score all Greek, until you vocalize 



Kathrtna. 79 

Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts 

Which meet the eye in picture and in form, 

They ask no mediator but the light — 

No grace but privilege to shine with naught 

Between them and the light. They are themselves 

Expositors of that which they expose, 

Or they are nothing. All the middle-men — 

The fools profound — who take it on their tongues 

To play the showmen, strutting up and down. 

And mouthing of the beauty that they hide. 

Are an impertinence." 

*' You leave no room 
For critics," she suggested, with a smile. 
" We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives 
And innocent babes it feeds." 

" No care for them ! * 
I made reply. '* They do not need much room — 
Men of their build — and what they need they take. 
The feeble conies burrow in the rocks ; 
But the trees grow, and we are not aware 
Of space encumbered by them." 

"Yet the fact 
Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, 
*' That greatest artists speak to fewest souls. 



8o Kathrina, 

Or speak to them directly. They have need 

Of no such ministry as waits the beck 

Of the composer ; but they need the life, 

If not the learning, of the cultured few 

Who understand them. If from out my book 

I gather that which feeds me, and inspires 

A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life, 

And give my life to those who cannot win 

From the dim text such boon, then have I borne 

A blessing from the book, and been its best 

Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven 

Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are — ° 

Some ready souls — that take the morsel pure 

Divided to their need ; but multitudes 

Must have it in admixtures, menstruums, 

And forms that human hands or human life 

Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find 

Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls 

In sight of great cathedrals, or in view 

Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, 

And not the best. That which they do not see 

Must enter higher souls, and there, by art 

Or life, be fashioned to their want." 

"Your thought 
Grows subtle," I responded, " and I grant 
Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie 



Kathrina. 8 1 

Somewhere between us, and I see the face 
It turns to me in stronger light than you 
Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine ; 
It is not yours. You have instructed me, 
And won my thanks." 

"Instructed you?" she said. 
With a fine blush : " you mock, you humble me. 
And have I talked so much, with such an air, 
That, either earnestly or in a jest, 
You can say this to me ? " 

*' 'Tis not a sin, 
In latitude of ours," I made reply, 
** To talk philosophy ; 'tis only rare 
For beardless lips to do so. I have caught 
From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme 
Than all the wise have taught me by their books, 
Or by their voices. I will think of it." 

*' Now may you be forgiven ! " the aunt exclaimed. 

Approaching unobserved. "There never lived 

A quieter, more plainly speaking girl. 

Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months, 

I have heard nought from her but common sense ; 

But when you came, why, off she went ; though where 

It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame ; 



82 Kathrina. 

And you must lift your spell, and give her back 
Just as you found her." 

*' She has practised well 
Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread 
That meets your want ; to me, that meets my own," 
I said, in answering. 

" Well," spoke the aunt, 
*' I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread : 
So, follow me." 

We followed to her board, 
And there, in converse suited to the hour 
And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves — 
Quite to that lady's liking — of the earth. 
We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea. 
And revelled in the spicy succulence 
Of her preserves. 

While still I sat at ease. 
The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance. 
Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me. 
And said with sweet, respectful courtesy : 
" Pray you excuse my presence for an hour. 
A duty calls me out ; and that performed, 
I will return" 



Kathrina. ^l 

I saw she marked my look 
Of disappointment — that it staggered her — 
The while with words of stiffest commonplace 
I gave assent. But she was on her feet; 
And soon I heard her light step on the stair, 
Seeking her chamber. 

" Whither will she go 
At such an hour as this, from you and me ? " 
I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt. 

** You men are very curious," she said. 

** I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir, 

But you must call her to account ? Who knows 

She may not have some rustic lover here 

With whom she keeps her tryst? 'Tis an old trick, 

Not wholly out of fashion in these parts. 

What matters it ? She orders her own ways. 

And has discretion." 

With lugubrious voice 
I said : " You trifle, madam, with my wish. 
I know the lady has no lover here, 
And so do you." 

" I'm not so sure of that ! " 
My hostess made response ; and then she laughed 



84 Kathrina. 

A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook 
Her finger at me, till my temples burned 
With the hot shame she summoned. 

" There ! " I said ; 
** You've done your worst, and learned so much, at 

least — 
That I admire your niece. / curious ! 
Well, you are curious and cunning too. 
Now, in the moment of your victory. 
Be generous ; and tell me what may call 
The lady from us." 

" It is Thursday night," 
She answered soberly', — " the weekly hour 
At which our quiet neighborhood convenes 
For social worship. You may guess the rest 
Without my telling ; but you cannot know 
With what anticipated joy she leaves 
Our company, or with what shining face 
She will return." 

At that, I heard her dress 
Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way 
To meet her at its foot. A happy smile 
Illumed her features, as she gave her hand 
With thought of parting. I had rallied all 



Kathrina. 85 

My self-control and gallantry meanwhile, 

And said : " Not here. I'll with you, by your leave. 

So far as you may walk," 

There was a flash 
Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks 
A subtler charm than gratitude. 

I bade 
My hostess a " good-night," and left her door, 
Declining her entreaty to return. 
We walked in silence, side by side, a space, 
And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke : 
** Your aunt has told me of your errand; else, / 

It had been modest in me to withhold 
This tendance on your steps. She tells me you 
Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet, 
In neighborhood like this, to give a zest 
To hour like this ? " 

" Brothers and sisters all," 
She said in low reply ; " and as for zest. 
There's never lack of it where there is love. 
When families convene, they have no need 
Of more than love to give them festal joy ; 
Nor do they with discrimination judge 
Between the high and humble. These are one; 
Love makes them one." 



S6 Kathrina. 

" And you are one with these ? ** 

" Though most unworthy of such fellowship, 
I trust that I am one with these ; — that they 
Are one with me, and reckon me among 
Their number." 

" Can they do you any good?" 

** They can," she said, " but were it otherwise, 
I can serve them ; and so should seek them still. 
I help them in their songs." 

We reached too soon 
The open doorway of the humble hut 
Which, for long years, had held the village school, 
And, at a little distance, paused. The room, 
Battered and black by wantonest abuse 
Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps, 
Brought by the villagers ; and scattered round 
Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less 
Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshippers 
In silence sat. It was no place for words. 
I took the lady's hand, and said "good-night!" 
In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared 
Within the sheltered gloom ; but I could see 
The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire 



Kathrina. 87 

As she passed in ; and e'en the fainting lamps 
Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath 
Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart 
I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought, 
Took up the walk toward home. 

This homely group 
Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me ! 
These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives — 
Ah ! these were they who gave her overmuch 
In the bestowal of their fellowship ! 
These crowned her with a peerless privilege, 
Permitting her to sit with them an hour 
As a dear sister ! How my sore self-love 
Burned with the hot affront ! 

With lips compressed, 
Or blurting forth their anger and disgust, 
I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town, 
And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness 
About the streets, until the midnight bell 
Tolled from the old church tower ; — in helplessness, 
For, mattered nothing what or who she was 
(I had not dared or cared to question that), 
Or how offensive in her piety 
And her devotion to the tasteless cult 
Of the weak throng, I was her slave ; and she — 



88 Katkri?ta. 

Her own and God's. The miserable strife 
Between my love of self and love of her 
I knew was bootless ; and the trenchant truth 
Cut to the quick. She held within her hand 
My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not; 
And had she known, her soul was under vows 
Which would forever make subordinate 
Their recognized possession. 

But the morn 
Brought with it better mood and calmer thoughts. 
I had the grace to gauge the heartlessness 
Of my exactions, and the power to crush 
The tyrant wish to tear her from the throne 
To which she clung. I said : "So she love me 
As a true woman loves, and give herself — 
Her sweet, pure self — to me, and fill my home 
With her dear presence, loyal still to me 
In wifely love and wifely offices. 
Though she abide in Christian loyalty 
By Christian vows, she shall have liberty, 
And hold it as her right." 

She was my peer : 
No weakling girl, who would surrender will 
And life and reason, with her loving heart, 
To her possessor ; — no soft, clinging thing 



Kathrina. 89^ 

Who would find breath alone within the arms 

Of a strong master, and obediently 

Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness ;— 

No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend 

His royal pleasure, and account herself 

Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, 

But a round woman, who, with insight keen, 

Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well 

Her womanhood ; had spread before her feet 

A fine philosophy to guide her steps ; 

Had won a faith to which her life was brought 

In strict adjustment — brain and heart meanwhile 

Working in conscious harmony and rhythm 

With the great scheme of God's great universe. 

On toward her being's end. 

I could but know 
Her motives were superior to mine. 
I could but feel that in her loyalty 
To God and duty, she condemned my life. 
Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide 
In holy charity, she had drawn all 
Of human kind, and found no humblest soul 
Too humble for her entertainment, — none 
So weak it could return no grateful boon 
For what she gave ; and standing modestly 
Within her scheme, with meekest reverence 



90 Kathrina. 

She bowed to those above her, yet with strong 
And hearty confidence assumed a place 
In service of the world, as minister 
Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread 
She took from other hands. And she was one 
Who could see all there was of good in me, — 
Could measure well the product of my power. 
And give it impulse and direction : nay, 
Could supplement my power ; and help my heart 
Against its foes. 

The moment that I thrust 
The selfish thirsting for monopoly 
Of her affections from my godless heart. 
She entered in, and reigned a goddess there. 
If she had fascinated me before, 
And fired my heart with passion, now she bent 
My spirit to profound respect. I bowed 
To the fair graces of her character. 
Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence 
Of her devoted life, with humbled heart 
And self-depreciation. All of God 
That the world held for me, I found in her; 
And in her, all the God I sought. She was 
My saviour from myself and from my sins ; 
For, with my worship of the excellence 
Which she embodied, came the purity 



Kathrina, 91 

And peace to which, through all my troubled life, 
I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all 
Were sublimated by the subtle flame 
Which warmed and wrapped me ; and I walked as one 
Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath, 
Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere 
Which every sense and faculty informed 
With light and life divine. 

What need to tell 
Of the succeeding summer days, and all 
Their deeds and incidents ? They floated by 
Like silent sails upon a summer sea, 
That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn, 
Traverse the vision, and at evening slide 
Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames 
The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er, 
I walked the path, and crossed the stream, thiat 

lay 
Between me and the idol of my heart ; 
And every day, in every circumstance, 
I found her still the same, yet not the same ; 
For, every day, some unsuspected grace, 
Or some fresh revelation of her wealth 
Of character and culture, touched my heart 
To new surprise, and overflowed the cup 
Whose wine was life to me. 



92 Kathrina, 

Though I could see 
That I was not unwelcome ; though I knew 
I gave a zest to her sequestered life, 
I had built up so high my only hope 
On her affection — I had given myself 
So wholly to the venture for her hand, 
I did not dare to speak of love, or ask 
The question which, unasked, held hopefully 
My destiny : which answered, might bring doom 
Of madness or of death. 

Meanwhile, I learned 
The lady's history from other lips 
Than her's — her aunf s. Alas ! the old, old tale ! 
She had been bred to luxury; and all 
That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends 
Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow. 
She had possessed. But he who won the wealth, 
Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fellj 
Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died — 
Died in disgrace ; and all his thousand friends 
Fell off, and left his pampered family, 
•The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down 
His house and household gods, and set adrift 
The helpless life thus cruelly bereft. 
The mother lived a month : the rest went forth, 
Not knowing whither ; but they found among 



Kathrina, 93 

The poor a shelter for their poverty, — 
Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words, 
A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death. 
Such as the world abouii<is with. 

But this girl, 
With her quick ins'mcts and her brave, good heart, 
Determined she -^ould live awhile, and learn 
What lesson God would teach her. This she sought, 
And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well 
She learned the lesson — what the lesson was — 
Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still 
My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough, 
Just now and here, that out of it she bore 
A noble womanhood, accepting all 
Her great misfortunes as the discipline 
Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed 
To lead her to her place, and whiten her 
For Christian service. 

All the summer fled ; 
i^nd still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve, 
When first the creaking of the crickets told 
Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her 
To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem 
Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds 
Of emerald sward around his feet, and there 



94 Kathrina. 

Upon its tufted velvet we sat down. 

It was my time to speak, but I was dumb ; 

And silence, painful and portentous, hung 

Upon us both. At length, she turned and said : 

** Some days have passed since you were latest here. 

Have you been ill ? " 

**No, I have been at work," 
I answered, — '* at my own delightful work ; 
The first since first we met. The record lies 
Where I may reach it at a word from you. 
Command, and I will read it." 

** I command," 
She said, responding with a laugh. " Nay, I 
Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine, 
And has a better sound from lips of mine. 
I am your waiting auditor." 

I read : 

" Was it the tale of a talking bird ? 

Was it a dream of the night ? 
When have I seen it ? Where have I heard 
Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred 

My spirit with affright? 



Kathrina. 95 

'* The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay 

With a burden of spirits twain, — 
A woman who lifts her eyes to pray, 
A tall youth, trolling a roundelay, 

And before them night, and the main ! 



*' O ! Star of The Sea ! They will come to harm : 

Nor master nor sailor is there ! 
The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm, 
And laughs ! Does he hold in his bosom a charm 

That will baffle the sprites of the air? 



*' O ! woe to the delicate ship ! O ! woe ! 

For the sun is sunk, and behold ! 
The trooping phantoms that come and go 
In the sky above and the waves below ! 

Hoi The wind blows wild and cold. 



" The woman is weeping in weak despair ; 
The youth still clings to the mast, 
With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare 
At the phantoms hovering everywhere ; • 
And the storm-rack rises fast I 



g6 Kathrina, 

** The phantoms close on the flying bark ; 

They flutter about her peak ; 
They sweep in swarms from the outer dark; 
But the youth at the mast stands still and stark, 

While they flap his stinging cheek. 



*' They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings ; 

They bellow and roar and hiss ; 
They splash the deck with their slimy wings — 
Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things — 

That climb from the foul abyss. 



" No star shines out at the woman's prayer ; 

O ! madly distraught is she ! 
And the bark drives on with her wild despair, 
With shrieking fiends in the crowded air, 

And fiends on the swarming sea. 



s 



Then out of the water before their sight 

A shape loomed bare and black! 
So black that the darkness bloomed with white ; 
So black that the lightning grew strangely bright 5 

And it lay in the shallop's track ! 



Kathrina. gj 

'^ O ! fierce was the shout of the goblins then ! 

How the gibber and laugh went round ! 
The shout and the laugh of a thousand men, 
Echoed and answered, and echoed again, 

Would have been a feebler sound. 



"' Straight toward the blackness drove the ship ; 
But the youth still clung to the mast : 

* I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold lip, 

* That the devil gets never a man on the hip 

Whom he scares not, first or last' 



'' Nearer the blgickness loomed ; and the bark 

Scudded before the breeze ; 
Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark ! 
The crash of breakers out of the dark, 

And the shock of plunging seas ! 



*' O ! woe ! for the woman's wits ran daft 
With the fearful bruit and burst ; 
She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft. 
She plunged in the sea, and the black waves quaffed 
The sweet life they had cursed. 
5 



98 Kathrina, 

*' Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast 
Of a tenth-wave out to land ; 
While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest, 
And the youth, unharmed, became the guest 
Of the elves of the silent land. 



" With banter and buffet they pressed around ; 

They tied his strong hands fast ; 
But he laughed, and said, ' I have read and found 
That the devil throws never a man to the ground 

Whom he scares not, first or last.' 



** Under the charred and ghastly gloom. 

Over the flinty stones, 
They led him forth to his terrible doom, 
And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb. 

They sat him among the bones. 



" They left him there in the crawling mire : 
They could neither maim nor kill : 
For fiends of water, and earth, and fire. 
Are baffled and beaten by the ire 
Of a dauntless human will. 



Kathrina. 99 

*' Days flushed and faded, months passed away, 

He knew by the golden hght 
That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray 
Which parted the short and slender day 

From the long and doleful night. 



" Was it a vision that cheated his eyes ? 

Was he awake, or no ? 
He stared through the loop with keen surprise, 
For he saw a sweet angel from the skies, 

With white wings, folded low. 



" Could she not loose him from his thrall, 
And lead him into the light ? 
* Ah me ! ' he murmured, ' I dare not call, 
Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, 
And leave me in swift affright ! * 



She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste ; 

He could neither call nor cry : 
She vanished into the sunny waste, 
Into far blue air that he longed to taste ; 

And he cursed that he could not die. 



lOO Kathrina, 

*' But she came again, and every day 

He worshipped her where she shone ; . 
And again she left him and floated away, 
But his faithless tongue refused to pray 
For the boon she could give alone, 

** And there he sits in his dumb despair. 
And his watching eyes grow dim : 
Would God that his coward lips might dare 
To utter the word to the angel fair, 
That is life or death to him ! " 

I marked her as I read, a furtive glance 
Filling each pause. The passion of the piece, 
Flaming and fading, ever and anon. 
Mirrored itself within her tender eyes, 
Themselves the mirror of her tender soul, 
And fixed attent upon my face the while. 

She had not caught my meaning, but had heard 
Only a weird, wild story. When I paused. 
Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade 
Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked 
A question rising in her eyes. She knew 
That I was waiting for her words, and turned 
Her look away, and for long moments gazed 
Ixito the brooding dusk. 



Kathrina, loi 

"Speak it!" I said. 

" 'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me. 
" Why do you write such things ? — or, writing such, 
Leave them so incomplete ? The prisoned youth, 
Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live. 
I shudder while I think of him." 

Then I : 
'* The poem will be finished, by-and-by, 
For this is history, and antedates 
No fact that it records. Whether this youth 
Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air. 
Depends upon his angel ; for he calls — 
I hear him call, and call again her name 
Kathrina! O! Kathrina!" 

Like the flash 
Of the hot lightning, the significance 
Of the strange vision gleamed upon her face 
In a bright, throbbing flame, that fell full soon 
To ashen paleness. By unconscious will 
We both arose. She vainly tried to speak. 
And gazed into my eyes with such a look 
Of tender questioning, of half-reproach. 
Of struggling, doubting, hesitating joy. 
As few men ever see, and none but once. 



I02 Kathrina. 

Are there not lofty moments, when the soul 

Leaps to the front of being, casting off 

The robes and clumsy instruments of sense, 

And, postured in its immortality. 

Reveals its independence of the clod 

In which it dwells ? — moments in which the earth 

And all material things, all sights and sounds, 

All signals, ministries, interpreters. 

Relapse to nothing, and the interflow 

Of thought and feeling, love and life go on 

Between two spirits, raised to sympathy 

By an inspiring passion, as, in heaven, 

The body dust, within an orb outlived. 

It shall go on forever ? 

Moments like these — 
Nay, these in very truth — were given us then. 
Who shall expound — ah! who but God alone, 
The everlasting mystery of love ? 
She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine. 
I breathed no word, but she was well assured 
That I was wholly her's. 

In what disguise 
Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle ; 
Behind what semblance of indifference, 
Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords 



Kathrina, 103 

That bound our hearts in one, was mystery 

Like love itself. The swift intelligence 

Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, 

Of gift of life and person, of the thrill 

Of triumph in my soul and gratitude 

In hers, without a gesture, or a word, 

Was like the converse of the continents — 

Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire 

That underlay the throbbing mystery 

Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one. 

I opened wide my arms, and she, my own, 

Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, 

In such embrace of passionate tenderness, 

As heaven may yield again, but never earth. 

Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, 
Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on. 
Silent at first, and then with quiet speech 
Broaching our plans, or tracing in review 
The history of our springing love, when she, 
Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine : 

" Dear Paul ! 
There are some things, and some I will not name. 
That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy. 
In the wild lay that you have read to-night. 
You make too much of me. No heart of man, 



I04 Kathrhia. 

Though loving well and loving worthily, 

Can be content with any human love. 

No woman, though the pride and paragon 

Of all her sex, can take the place of God. 

No angel she : nor is she quite a man 

In power and courage, — gifts which charm her most. 

And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms, 

And make her less a woman. If she stand 

In fair equality with man — his mate — 

Each unto each the rounded complement 

Of their humanity, it is enough ; 

And such equality must ever lie 

In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least. 

Is true as God : she is not more than he. 

And sits upon no throne. To be adored 

By man, she must be placed upon a throne 

Built by his hands, and sit an idol there, 

Degraded by the measure of the flight 

Between God's thought and man's." 

Responding, I ; 
** Fix your own place, my love ; it is your right. 
'Tis well to have a theory, and sit 
In the centre of it, mistress of its law, 
And subject also ; — to set men up here 
And women there, in a fine equipoise 
Of gift and grace and import. It conveys 



Kathrina. 105 

To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense 
Of order, like a well-appointed room, 
Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares, 
Forethoughts of color brought to harmony ; 
Strict balancings of quantity and form ; 
Flowers in the centre, and, beside the, grate, 
A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these 
(Your pardon, love !) are likely to arrange 
The window-lights to save the furniture, 
And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you. 
In the adjustment of your theory. 
Would shut the light from her whose mind informs 
Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought, 
Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love, 
And fail to worship what we love. While you 
Worship the strength and courage which you find 
In him who has your heart, he bows to all 
Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you. 
If, in our worship, we have need to build 
Noblest ideals, taking much from God 
With which to make them perfect in our eyes. 
Shall God mark blame ? We worship him the while, 
In attributes his own, or attributes 
With which our thought invests him. As for me — 
It is no secret — I am what you call 
A godless man ; yet what is worshipful. 
Or seems to be so, that with all my heart 
5* 



io6 Kathrind. 

I worship ; and I worship while I love. 

You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God, 

And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet. 

All merit you abjure, ascribing all 

To him who dwells within you. How can you 

Forbid that I fall down and worship you, 

When what I find to worship is not yours. 

But God's alone ? I know the ecstasy 

Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul, 

And blesses me with peace. My love, my life. 

You are my all. I have no other good. 

And, in this moment of my happiness, 

I ask no other." 

Tears were in her eyes. 
Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, 
While under droop of lashes she replied : 
" I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. 
It does not touch my judgment or my heart 
With motive of conviction. In what way 
God may be working to reclaim your will 
And worship to himself, I cannot know. 
If through your love for me, or mine for you. 
Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, 
I yield myself to him. But this is true : 
God is not worshipped in his attributes. 
I do not love your attributes, but you. 



Kathrina. loj 

Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, 

Blended in other personalities, 

Nor do I love, nor do I worship them, 

Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard 

Will dare a danger which will make you pale, 

But shall his courage steal my heart from you? 

You cheat your conscience, for you know that I 

May like your attributes, yet love not you ; 

Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. 

I do not argue this to damp your joy. 

But make it rational. If you presume 

Perfection in me, — if you lavish all 

The largess of your worship and your love 

On me, imposing on my head a crown 

Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart 

The pang of disappointment. There will come 

A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul. 

The cry for something more, and more divine, 

Will rise, nor be repressed." 

There is a charm 
In earnestness, when it inspires the lips 
Of one we love, that spoils their argument. 
And yields so much of pleasure and of pride. 
That the conviction which they seek evades 
Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings 
Crows from its covert. 



io8 Kathrina. 

She was casuist, 
Cunning and clear ; and I was proud of her ; 
And though I knew that she had swept away 
My refuges of lies like chaff, and proved 
My fair words fustian, I was moved to mirth 
Over the solemn ruin. Had it been 
A decent thing to do, I should have laughed 
Full in her face ; but knowing that her words 
Were offspring of her conscience and her love, 
I could no less than hold respectfully 
Her earnest warning. 

" Well, I'll take the risk," 
I said. '' While you shall have the argument, 
I will have you, who, on the whole, I like. 
Better than that. And you shall have your way, 
And I my own, in common liberty. 
With things like these. You, doubtless, are to me 
What I am not to you. We are unlike 
In life and circumstance — alike alone 
In this : that better than all else on earth 
We love each other. This is basis broad 
For happiness, or broad enough for me. 
If you build better, you are fortunate, 
Ay, fortunate indeed ; and some fine day 
We'll talk about it. Let us have to-night 
Joy in our new possessions, and defer 



Kathrina, 109 

This little joust of wits and consciences 
To more convenient season." 

We had reached 
The cottage door at this ; and there her aunt 
Awaited our return. So, hand in hand, 
Assuming show of rustic bashfulness, 
We paused before her, and with bows profound 
Made our obeisance. 

"Well?" she said at length; 
" Well ?— and what of it ? " 

'* Are you not surprised ? " 
I asked. 



II 



Surprised, indeed ! Surprised at what ? " 



'^ At what you see : and this! and this!" I said, 
Planting a kiss upon each lovely cheek 
Of my betrothed, that straightway bloomed with rose. 
*^ What! are you blind, my aunt?" 

" You silly fools ! 
I've seen it from the first," she answered me. 
'* No doubt you thought that you were very deep, 
Very mysterious — all that sort of thing. 
I've watched you, and if you, young man, had been 



1 10 Kathrina. 

Aught bul a coward, it had come before, 
And saved some sleep o' nights to both of you. 
But down upon your knees, for benison 
Of one who loves you both." 

We knelt, and then 
She kissed us, leaving on our cheeks the tears 
That sprang to brim the moment. Her shrewd eyes, 
That melted in the sympathy of love, 
Would not meet ours again, but turned away, 
And sought in solitude to drain themselves 
Of their strange passion. 

God forbid that I, 
With weak and sacrilegious lips, betray 
The confidence of love ; or tear aside 
The secrecy behind whose snowy folds 
Honor and virgin modesty retire 
For holiest communion ! For the fire 
Which burns upon that altar is of God. 
Its tongues of flame, throughout all time and space, 
Speak but one language, understood by all, 
But sacred ever to the wedded hearts 
That listen to their breathings. 

In the deep hours of night 
I left the cottage, brain and heart o'erfilled 



Kathrma. ill 

With the ethereal vintage I had quaffed. 

Disturbing not the drowsy ferryman, 

I slipped his little wherry from the sand, 

And in the star-sprent river lipped the oars 

That pulled me homeward. The enchanting tide 

Was smooth continuation of the dream 

On which my spirit, holily afloat. 

Had glided through long hours of happiness. 

Earth, by the strange, delicious ecstasy, 

Was changed to paradise ; and something kin 

To gratitude arose within my soul — 

A fleeting passion, dying all too soon, 

Lacking the root which faith alone can feed. 

I touched the shore ; but when my hasting feet 

Started the homeward walk, there came a change. 

Down from the quiet stars there fell a voice. 

Heard in the innermost, that troubled me : 

** She :s not more than you : why worship her ? 

And she will die : what will remain for you ? 

You may die first, indeed : then what resource ? 

You have no sympathy with her in things 

Ordained within her conscience and her life 

The things supreme : can there be marriage thus ? 

Is e'en such bliss as may be possible 

Sure to be yours? Fate has a thousand hands 

To dash your lifted cup." 



112 Kathrina. 

With thoughts like these, 
A vague uneasiness invaded me, 
And toned the triumph of my passion, till. 
Almost in anger, I exclaimed at last : 
" This is reaction. I have flown too high 
Above the healthy level, and I feel 
The press of denser air. The equipoise 
Of circumstance and feeling will be reached 
All in good time. Rest and to-morrow's sun 
Will bring the remedy, and, with the mists, 
This cloud will pass away." 

Then with clenched hands 
I swore I would be happy, — that my soul 
Should find its satisfaction in her love ; 
And that, if there should ever come a time 
Of cold satiety, or I should find 

Weakness or fault where I had thought was strength 
And full perfection, I would e'en endow 
Her poverty with all the hoarded wealth 
Of my imagination, making her 
The woman of my want, in plenitude 
Of strength and loveliness. 

The breezy days 
Over whose waves my buoyant life careered, 
Rolled to October, falling on its beach 



Kathrina. 113 

With bursts of mellow music ; and I leaped 
Upon the longed-for shore ; for, in that month, 
My dear betrothed, deferring to the stress 
Of my impatient wish, had promised me 
Her hand in wedlock. 

Ere the happy day 
Dawned on the world, the world was draped in robes 
Meet for the nuptials. Baths of sunny haze. 
Steeping the ripened leaves from day to day, 
And dainty kisses of the frost at night, 
Joined in the subtile alchemy that wrought 
Such miracles of change, that myriad trees 
Which pranked the meads and clothed the forest glooms 
Bloomed with the tints of Eden. Had the earth 
Been splashed with blood of grapes from every clime, 
Tinted from topaz to dim carbuncle, 
Or orient ruby, it would not have been 
Drenched with such waste of color. All the hues 
The rainbow knows, and all that meet the eye 
In flowers of field and garden, joined to tell 
Each tree's close-folded secret. Side by side 
Rose sister maples, some in amber gold. 
Others incarnadine or tipped with flame ; 
And oaks that for a hundred years had stood, 
And flouted one another through the storms — • 
Boasting their might — proclaimed their pique or pride 



1 14 Kathrina. 

In dun, or dyes of Tyre. The sumac-leaves 

Blazed with such scarlet that the crimson fruit 

Which hung among their flames was touched to guise 

Of dim and dying embers ; while the hills 

That met the sky at the horizon's rim — 

Dabbled with rose among the evergreens, 

Or stretching off in sweeps of clouted crimson — glowed 

As if the archery of sunset clouds, 

By squads and fierce battalions, had rained down 

Its barbed and feathered fire, and left it fast 

To advertise th' exploit. 

In such pomp 
Of autumn glory, by the simplest rites, 
Kathrina gave her hand to me, and I 
Pledged truth and life to her, I bore her home 
Through shocks of maize, revealing half their gold; 
Past gazing harvesters with creaking wains 
That brimmed with fruitage — my adored, my wife, 
Fruition of my hope — the proudest freight 
That ever passed that way ! 

My troops of friends, 
Grov\Ti strangely warm and strangely numerous 
With scent of novelty and pleasant cheer, 
Assisted mc to place upon her throne 
My household queen. Right royally she sat 



Kathrina. 115 

The new-born dignity. Most graciously 
She spoke and smiled among the silken clouds 
That, fold on perfumed fold, like frankincense 
Enveloped her, through "half the festal night, 
With welcome and good wishes. I was proud ; 
For was not I a king where she was queen ? 
And queen she was — though consort in rhy home. 
Queen regnant in the realm of womanhood, 
By right of every charm. 

Into her place, 
As mistress of all home economies, 
She slid without a jar, as if the Fates, 
By concert of foreordinate design, 
Had fitted her for it, and it for her. 
And, having joined them well, were satisfied. 
Obedient to the orbit of our love. 
We came and went, revolving round our home 
In spheral harmony — twin stars made one, 
And loyal to one law. 

When at our board, 
All viands lifted by her hand became 
Ambrosial ; and her light, elastic step 
From room to room, in busy household cares. 
Timed with my heart, and filled me with a sense 
Of harmony and peace. Days, weeks, and months 



ii6 Kathrina. 

Lapsed like soft measures, rhyming each with each, 
All charged with thoughtful ministries to me, 
And not to me alone; for I was proud 
To know that she was counted by the good 
As a good power among them, — by the poor, 
As angel sent of God, on whom they called 
His blessing down. 

She held her separate life 
Of prayer and Christian service, without show 
Of sanctity, without obtrusiveness ; 
And, though I could but know she never sought 
A blessing for herself, forgetting me 
In her petition, not in all those months 
Did word of difference betray the gulf 
Between our souls and lives. She had her plan : 
I guessed it, and respected it. She felt 
That if her life were not an argument 
To move me, nothing that her lips might say 
Could win me to her wish. Pride would repel 
What it could not refute, and pleasantry 
Parry the thrusts that love could not resent. 

A whole year sped, yet not a line of verse 
Had grown beneath my pen. When I essayed 
To brace my powers to effort, and to call 
Forth from their camp and covert the bright ranks 



Kathrina. 117 

Gf tuneful numbers, no responsive shout 
Answered the bugle-blast, and from my hand — • 
Irresolute and nerveless as a babe's^ 
My falchion fell. 

She rallied me on this ; 
But I had nought to say, save this, perhaps : 
That she, being all my world, had left no room 
For other occupation than my love. 
She did not smile at this : it was no jest. 
But saddest truth. I had grown enervate 
In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed ; 
And this, with consciousness that in her soul — 
As warm with love as mine — each gentle power 
Was kindling with new life from day to day, 
Growing with my decline. 

Well, in good time, 
There came to us a child, the miniature 
Of her on whose dear breast my babyhood 
Was nursed and cradled ; and my happy heart. 
Charged with a double tenderness, received 
And blessed the precious gift. Another fount 
Of human love gurgled to meet my lips. 
Another store of good, as rich and pure, 
In its own kind, as that from which I drank, 
V/as thus discovered to my taste, and I 
Feasted upon its fulness. 



1 1 8 Kathrina, 

With the gift 
That brimmed my cup of joy, there came a grace 
To her who bore it of fresh loveUness. 
If I had loved the maiden and the bride, 
The mother, through whose pain my heart had won 
Its new possession, fastened to my heart 
With a new sympathy. Whatever dross 
Our months of intimacy had betrayed 
Within her character, was purged away. 
And she was left pure gold. Nay, I should say, 
Whatever goodness had not been revealed 
Through the relations of her heart to mine 
As loving maid and mistress, found the light 
Through her maternity. A heavenly change 
Passed o'er her soul and o'er her pallid face, 
As if the unconscious yearning of a life 
Had found full satisfaction in the birth 
Of the new being. Her long weariness 
Was but a trance of peace and gratitude ; 
And as she lay — her babe upon her breast. 
Her eyelids closed — I could but feel that heaven. 
Should it hold all the good of which she dreamed^^ 
Had little more for her. 

And when again 
She moved about the house, in ministry 
To me and to her helpless child, I knew 



Kathrina. 119 

That I had tasted every precious good 

That woman bears to man. Ay, more than this : 

That not one man in thousands had received 

Such largess of affection, and such prize 

Of womanhood, as I had found in her, 

And made my own. The whole enchanting round 

Of pure, domestic commerce had been mine. 

A lover blest, a husband satisfied, 

A father crowned ! Love had no other boon 

To offer me, and held within its gift 

No other title. 

Thus, within the space 
Of two swift years, I traversed the domain 
Of novelty, and learned that I must glean 
The garnered fields of my experience 
To gratify the greed that still possessed 
My sateless heart. The time had come to me— 
Which I had half foreseen— when, by my will, 
My interest in those I loved should live 
Predominant in all my life. I nursed 
With jealous care my passion for my wife. 
I raised her to an apotheosis 
In my imagination, where I bowed 
And paid my constant homage. I was still 
Her fond and loyal lover ; but my heart, 
That had so freely drunk, with full content, 



1 20 Kathrina, 

Had seen the bottom of the cup she held | 
And what remained but tricks to eke it out, 
And artifice to give it piquancy, 
And sips to cool my tongue, the while my heart 
Was hollow with its thirst ? My little child 
Was precious to my soul beyond all price ; 
Mother and babe were all that they could be 
To any heart of man ; and yet — and yet ! 

Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore, 
Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent 
Like consciousness of power unused. To feel 
That one has gift to move the multitude, — 
To act upon the life of humankind 
By force of will, or fire of eloquence, 
Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel 
No stir of mighty motive in the soul 
To action or endeavor ; to behold 
The fairest prizes of this fleeting life 
Borne off by patient men who, day by day, 
By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights 
Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus 
With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt 
For soft and selfish passion ; to see this, 
Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave 
Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence, 
"■flefusing freedom lest he lose the crust 



Kathrina. I2I 

The chain of bondage warrants him — ah ! this 
Is misery indeed! 

Such misery- 
Was mine. I held the consciousness of power 
To labor even-headed with the best 
Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves 
Felt in the world's great life ; and yet, I felt 
No lift to enterprise, from heaven above 
Or earth beneath ; for neither God nor man 
Lived in my love. My home held all my world ; 
Yet it was evident — I felt, I knew — 
That nought could fill my opening want but toil ; 
And there were times when I had hailed with joy 
The curse of poverty, compelling me 
To labor for my bread, and for the bread 
Of those I loved. 

My neighbors all around 
Were happy in their work. The plodding hind 
Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse, 
Whistled about his work with merry heart. 
And filled his measure of content with toil. 
In all the streets and all the busy fields, 
Men were astir, and doing with their might 
What their hands found to do. They drove the plough, 
They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove, 



122 Kathrina. 

They taught and preached, they hasted up and down 

Each on his little errand, and their eyes 

Were full of eager fire, as if the earth 

And all its vast concerns were on their hands. 

Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night, 

And ripe with impulse to new industry 

At each new dawn. 

I saw all this, but knew 
That they were not like me — were most unlike 
In constitution and condition. Thus, 
My power to do, and do the single thing 
My power was shaped to do, became, instead 
Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me. 
The moiling multitude for little tasks 
Found little motives plenty ; but for me, 
Who in my indolence they all despised — 
Not understanding me — no motive rose 
To lash or lead. Even the love I dreamed 
Would give me impulse had defrauded me. 
Feeble and proud ; strong, yet emasculate ; 
Centred in self, and still despising self; 
Goaded, yet held ; convinced, but never moved ; 
Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me 
That death had met with welcome. If I read, 
I read to kill my time. No interest 
In the great thoughts of others moved my soul, 



Kathrina, 123 

Because I had no object ; useless quite 
The knowledge and the culture I possessed ; 
And if I rode, the stale monotony 
Of the familiar landscapes sickened me. 

In these dull years, my toddling little wean 

Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained 

Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart 

From fatal gloom \ but more and more I shunned 

The world around me, more and more drew in 

The circle of my life, until, at last. 

My home became my hermitage. I knew 

The dissolution of the spell would come. 

And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet 

The crash and transformation. If my pride 

Forbade the full confession to my wife 

That time had verified her prophecy, 

It failed to hold the truth from her. She read, 

With a true woman's insight, all my heart ; 

Bat with a woman's sensitiveness shrank 

From questions which might seem to carry blame ; 

And so, for years, there lay between our souls 

The bar of silence. 

One sweet summer eve, 
After my lamb was folded and before 
The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone 



1 24 Kathrina. 

Within my room^ I heard reluctant feet 

Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard : 

" May I come in ? " 

"Ay, you may always come; 
And you are welcome always," I replied. 

The room was dim, but I could see her face 

Was pale, and her long lashes wet. *' Your seat " — 

I said, with open arms. Upon my knee. 

One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down 

As if the heart within her breast were lead, 

And she were weary with its weight. 

" My wife, 
What burden now ? " I asked her tenderly. 

She fixed her swimming eyes on mine, and said : 
" My dear, you are not happy. Years have gone 
Since you have been content. I bring no words 
Of blame against you : you have been to me 
A comfort and a joy. Your constancy 
Has honored me as few of all my sex 
Are honored by your own ; but while you pine 
With secret pain, I am so wholly yours 
That I must pine with you. I've waited long 



Kathrina. 125 

For you to speak ; and now I come to you 
To ask you this one question : Is there aught 
Of toil or sacrifice within my power 
To ease your heart, or give you liberty 
Beyond the round to which you hold your feet? 
Speak freely, frankly, as to one who loves 
Her husband better than her only child, 
And better than herself." 

I drew her head 
Down to my cheek, and said : "My angel wife! 
Whatever torment or disquietude 
I may have suffered, you have never been 
Its cause, or its occasion. You are all — 
You have been all — that womanhood can be 
To manhood's want ; and in your woman's love 
And woman's pain, I have found every good 
My life has known since first our lives were joined. 
You knew me better than I knew myself; 
And your prophetic words have haunted me 
Like thoughts of retribution : ' There will come 
* A sad, sad titne, when in your famished soul 
' The cry for something more, and more divine 
' Will rise, nor be repressed.^ For something 

more 
My spirit clamors : nothing more divine 
I ask for." 



126 Kathrina. 

"' What shall be this '^ something more ' ? 
"Work," I replied; "ay, work, but never here; 
Work among men, where I may feel the touch 
Of kindred life ; work where the multitudes 
Are surging ; work where brains and hands 
Are struggling for the prizes of the world ; 
Work where my spirit, driven to its bent 
By competitions and grand rivalries, 
Shall vindicate its own pre-eminence. 
And wring from a reluctant world the meed 
Of approbation and respect for which 
It yearns with awful hunger ; work, indeed, 
Which shall compel the homage of the souls 
That creep around me here, and pity you 
Because, forsooth, the Fates have hobbled you 
With a dull drone. I know how sweet the love 
Of two fond souls ; and I will have the hearts 
Of millions. These shall satisfy my greed, 
And round the measure of my life ; and these 
My work shall win me." 

At these childish words^ 
She raised her head, and with a sweet, sad smile 
Of love and pity blent, made her response : 
" Not yet, my husband — if your wife may speak 
A thought that crosses yours — not yet have you 
Found the great secret of content. But work 



Kathrina. 127 

May help you toward it, and in any case 

Is better far than idleness. For this, 

You ask of me to sacrifice this home 

And all the truest friends my life has gained, 

I do it from this moment ; glad to prove, 

At any tender cost, my love for you, 

And faith in your endeavor. I will go 

To any spot of earth where you may lead. 

And go rejoicing. Let us go at once ! " 

*' I burn my ships behind me," 1 replied. 

** Measure the cost : be sure no secret hope 

Of late return be found among the flames ; 

For, if I go, I leave no single thread. 

Save that which binds me to my mother's grave^ 

To draw me back." 

" My love shall be the torch 
To light the fire," she answered. 

Then we rose. 
And, with a kiss, marked a full period 
To love's excess, and with a sweet embrace 
Wrote the initial of a stronger life. 



A REFLECTION. 

Oh ! not by bread alone is manhood nourished 

To its supreme estate ! 
By every word of God have Hved and flourished 

The good men and the great. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! 



*' Oh ! not by bread alone! " the sweet rose, breathing 

In throbs of perfume, speaks ; 
" But myriad hands, in earth and air, are wreathing 

The blushes for my cheeks. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! " 



•^^ Oh ! not by bread alone ! " proclaims in thunder 

The old oak from his crest ; 
" But suns and storms upon me, and deep under, 

The rocks in which I rest. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! " 



Kathrina, 1 29 

" Oh ! not by bread alone ! " The truth flies singing 

In voices of the birds ; 
And from a thousand pastured hills is ringing 

The answer of the herds : 
" Ay, not by bread alone ! " 



Oh ! not by bread alone ! for life and being 

Are finely complex all, 
And increment, with element agreeing, 

Must feed them, or they fall. 
Ay, not by bread alone ! 



Oh ! not by love alone, though strongest, purest 

That ever swayed the heart ; 
For strongest passion evermore the surest 

Defrauds each manly part. 
Ay, not by love alone ! 



Oh! not by love alone is power engendered. 

Until within the soul 
The gift of every motive has been rendered. 

It is not strong and whole. 

Ay, not by love alone I 
6* 



130 Kathrina. 

Oh! not by love alone is manhood nourished 

To its supreme estate : 
By every word of God have lived and flourished 

The good men and the great. 
Ay, not by love alone I 



PART III. 

LABOR. 

Ten years of love ! — a sleep, a pleasant dream 
That passed its culmen in the early half, 
Concluding in confusion — a wild scene 
Of bargains, auctions, partings, and what not ?— 
And an awaking I 

I was in Broadway, 
A unit in a million. Like a bath 
In ocean surf, blown in from farthest seas 
Under the August ardors, the grand rush 
Of crested life assailed me with its waves. 
And cooled me while it fired. With sturdy joy 
I sought its broadest billows, and resigned 
My spirit to their surge and sway ; or stood 
In sheltered coves, reached only by the spume 
And crepitant bubbles of the yesty floods, 
Drinking the roar, the sheen, the restlessness, 
As inspiration, both of sense and soul. 



132 Kathrina. 

I saw the waves of life roll up the steps 

Of great cathedrals and retire ; and break 

In charioted grandeur at the feet 

Of marble palaces, and toss their spray 

Of feathered beauty through the open doors, 

To pile the restless foam within ; and burst 

On crowded caravansaries, to fall 

In quick return ; and in dark currents glide 

Through sinuous alleys and the grimy loops 

Of reeking cellars ; and with softest plash 

Assail the gilded shrines of opulence, 

And slide in musical relapse away. 

With senses dazed and stunned, and soul o'erfiUed 
With chaos of new thoughts, I turned away, 
And sought my city home. There all was calm, 
With wife and daughter waiting my return, 
And eager with their welcome. That was life ! — 
An interest in the great world of life, 
A place for toil within a world of toil. 
And love for its reward. " Amen ! " I said, 
" And twice amen ! I've found my life at last, 
And we will all be happy." 

Day by day- 
The while I sought adjustment to the life 
Which I had chosen, and with careful thought 



Kathrina. 133 

Gathered to hand the fair material 
Elect by Fancy for the organism 
Over whose germ she brooded — I went out, 
To bathe again upon the shore of life 
My long-enfeebled nature. 

Every day 
I met some face I knew. My college friends 
Came up in strange disguises. Here was one, 
With a white neck-cloth and a saintly face, 
Who had been rusticated and disgraced 
For lawlessness. Now he administered 
A charge which proved that he had been at work, 
And made himself a man. And there was one — 
A lumpy sort of boy, as memory 
Recalled him to me — grown to portliness 
And splendid spectacles. He drove a chaise. 
And practised surgery, — was on his way 
To meet a class of youth, who sought to be 
Great surgeons like himself, and took full notes 
Of all his stolen wisdom. By his watch — 
A gold repeater, with a mighty chain — 
He gave me just five minutes ; then rolled off-^ 
Pretension upon wheels. Another grasped 
My hand as if I were his bosom friend, 
Just in from a long voyage. He was one 
Who stole my wood in college, and received 



1 34 Kathrina. 

With grace the kick I gave him. He had grown 

To be the tail of a portentous firm 

Of city lawyers : managed, as he said, 

The matter of collections ; and had made 

In his small way — to use his modest phrase, 

Truthful as modest — quite a pretty plum. 

He was o'erjoyed to see me in the town : 

Hoped I would call upon him at his den : 

If I had any business in his line, 

Would do it for me promptly ; as for price, 

No need to talk of that between two friends ! 

But these, and all — the meanest and the best — 

Were hard at work. They always questioned me 

Before we parted, touching my pursuits ; 

And though they questioned kindly, I grew sore 

Under the repetition, and ashamed 

To iterate my answer, till I burned 

To do some work, so lifted into fame. 

That shame should be to him whose ignorance 

Compelled a question. 

Simplest foresters 
Have learned the trick of woodland broods, that fly 
In radiant divergence from the flash 
Of death and danger, and, when all is still, 
Steal back to where their fellows bit the dust 



Kathrina. 135 

For rendezvous. And thus society 

Follows the brutal instinct. When the friends, 

Who from her father's ruin fled amain. 

Found out my wife, and learned that it was safe 

To gather back to the old feeding-ground, 

They came. Her old home had become my own 

And they were all delighted. It was sweet 

To have her back again ; and it was sad 

To know that those who once were happy there. 

Dispensing happiness, could come no more. 

It had its modicum of earnestness, — 
This talk of their's — and she received it all 
With hearty courtesy, and yielded it 
The unction of her charity, so far 
That it was smooth and redolent to her. 
The difference — the world-wide difference — 
Between my wife and them was obvious ; 
But she was generous through nature's gift 
I fancied — could not well be otherwise ; 
Although their fawning filled me with disgust. 
Oh ! fool and blind ! not to perceive the Christ 
That shone and spoke in her! 

The hour approached—* 
The predetermined time — when I should close 
My study-door, and wrap my kindling brain 



1 36 KathrUia. 

In the poetic dream which, day by day, 
Was gathering consistence in my brain. 
The quick, creative instinct in me plumed 
Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel 
The influx of fresh power ; but whence it came, 
I did not question; though it fired my heart 
With the assurance of success. 

I told 
My dear companion of my hopeful plans 
For winning fame, and making for myself 
A lofty place ; but I could not inspire 
Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er 
Her judgment to my motive. She adhered 
To her old theory, and gave no room 
To any motive it did not embrace. 
We argued much, but always argued wide, 
And ended where we started. Postulates 
On which we stood in perfect harmony. 
Were points of separation, out from which 
We struck divergently, till sympathy, 
That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts, 
Lay dead between us. 

" Man loves praise," I said. 
*' It is an appetence which He who made 
The human soul, made to be satisfied. 



Kathrina. 1 3/ 

It is a tree He planted. If it grow 

On that which feeds it, and become at last 

Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own, 

With usury. And if, in His intent. 

This passion have no place among the powers 

Of active life, why is it mighty there 

From youngest childhood ? Pray you what is fame 

But concrete praise ? — the universal voice 

Which bears, from every quarter of the earth, 

Its homage to a name, that grows thereby 

To be its own immortal monument 

Outlasting all the marble and the bronze 

Which cunning fingers, since the world began, 

Have shaped or stamped with story ? What is fame 

But aggregate of praise ? And if it be 

Legitimate to win, for sake of praise, 

The praise of one, why not of multitudes ? " 

''Ay," she replied; ^' 'tis true that men love praise; 

And it is true that He who made the soul 

Planted therein the love of praise, to be 

A motive in its life — all true so far ; 

And so far we agree. But motives all 

Have their appropriate sphere and sway, like men 

Who bear them in their breasts. The love of praise 

Fills life with fine amenities. Not all 

Who live have pleasant tempers, and not all 



138 Kathrina, 

The gift of gracious manners, or the love 

Of nobler motive, higher meed than praise. 

The world is full of bears, who smooth their hair. 

And glove their paws, and put on manly airs, 

And hold our honey sacred, and our lives 

Our own, because they hunger for our praise. 

'Tis a fine thing for bears — this love of praise — 

And those who deal with them ; and a good thing 

For children, and for parents, teachers — all 

Who have them in their keeping. It may hold 

A little mind to rectitude, until 

It grow, and grow ashamed to yield itself 

To such a petty motive. Children all 

Like sugar, and it may admit of doubt 

Whether our praise or sugar sweetens more 

Their petulant sub -acids ; but a man 

Would choke in swallowing the compliment 

Which we should pay him, were we but to say 

'Go to ! Do some great deed, and you shall 

have 
Your pay in sugar : — maple, mind you, now, 
So you shall do it featly.'" 

" Very good ! " 
I answered, *' very good, indeed ! if we 
Engage in talk for sport ; but argument 
On themes like these must have the element 



Kathriria, 139 

Of candor. Highest truth, in certain lights, 
May be ridiculous, and yet be truth. 
Women are angels : just a little weak 
And just a little wicked, it may be. 
Yet still the sweetest beings in the world ; 
But when one stands with apprehensive gasp 
At verge of sternutation, or leaps off, 
Projecting all her being in a sneeze. 
Or snores with lips wide-parted, or essays 
The ' double-quick,' we turn our eyes away 
In sadness, that a creature so divine 
Can be so shockingly ridiculous ; 
Yet who shall say she's not an angel still ? 
Now you present to me the meanest face 
Of a most noble truth. I laugh with you 
Over its sorry semblance ; but the truth 
Is still divine, and claims our reverence. 
The great King Solomon — and you believe 
In Solomon — has said that a good name 
Is more to be desired than much fine gold. 
If a good name be matter of desire 
Beyond all wealth — and you will pardon me 
For holding to the record— it may stand 
As a grand motive in the life of man. 
To grand endeavor. I have yet to learn 
That Solomon addressed his words to bears, 
Or little children. I am forced to think 



I40 Kathrina. 

That you and I, and all who read his words, 
Are those for whom he wrote." 

Rejoining she % 
*^ A good may be the subject of desire, 
And not be motive to achievement. Life, 
If I may speak the riddle, is a scheme 
Of indirections. My own happiness 
Is something to desire ; and yet, I know 
That I must win it by forgetting it 
In ministry to others. If I make 
My happiness the motive of my work, 
I spoil it by the taint of selfishness. 
But are you sure that you do not presume 
Somewhat too much, in claiming the desire 
For a good name as motive of your life ? 
Greatness, not goodness, is the end you seek, 
If I mistake you not ; and these are held. 
In the world's thought, as two, and most distinct. 
King Solomon was wise, but wiser He 
Who said to those who loved and followed him, 
* Who would be great among you, let him serve.' 
The greatest men — and artists should be such, 
For they are God's nobility and man's — 
Should work from greatest motives. Selfishness 
Is never great, and moves to no great deeds. 
To honor God, to benefit mankind, 



Kathriita. 141 

To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs 
Of the poor race for which the God-man died, 
And do it all for love — oh ! this is great ! 
And he who does this will achieve a name 
Not only great but good." 

** Not in this world," 
I answered her. " I know too much of it. 
The world is selfish ; and it never gives 
Due credit to a motive which assumes 
To be above its own. If a man write, 
It takes for granted that he writes for fame. 
And judges him accordingly. It holds 
Of no account all other aims and ends ; 
And visits with contempt the man who bears 
A mission to his kind. The critic pens 
That twiddle with his work, or play with it 
As cats with mice, are not remarkable 
For gentle instincts ; and my name must live 
By pens like these. I choose to take the world 
Just as I find it, and I pitch my tune 
To the world's key, that it may sing my tune. 
And sing for me. Ay, and I take myself 
Just as I find myself. I do not love 
The human race enough to work for it. 
Having no motive of philanthropy, 
I'll make pretence to none. The love of praise 



142 Kathrina, 

I count legitimate and laudable. 
'Tis not the noblest motive in the world, 
But it is good ; and it has won more fames 
Than any other. Surely, my good wife. 
You would not shut me from it, and deprive 
My power of its sole impulse." 

'' No ; oh ! no,'» 
She answered quickly. " I am only sad 
That it should be the captain of your host. 
All creatures of the brain are the result 
Of many motives and of many pov/ers. 
All life is such, indeed. The power that leads-^ 
The motive dominant — this stamps the work 
With its own likeness. Throughout all the world 
Are careful souls, with careful consciences. 
That pierce themselves with questionings and fears 
Because that, with the motives which are good. 
And which alone they seek, a hundred come 
They do not seek, and aye sophisticate 
Their finest action. They are wrong in this : 
All motives bowing to one leadership. 
And aiding its emprise, are one with it— 
The same in trend, the same in terminus. 
All the low motives that obey the law. 
And aid the work, of one above them all, 
Do holy service, and fulfil the end 



Kathrina. 143 

For which they were designed. The love of praise 

Is not the lowest motive which can move 

The human soul. Nay, it may do good work 

As a subordinate, and leave no soil 

On whitest fabric, at whose selvage shines 

The Master's broidered signature. Although 

You write for fame, think not you will escape 

The press of other motives. You love me ; 

You love your child ; you love your pleasant home ; 

You love the memory of one long dead. 

These, joined with all those qualities of heart 

Which make you dear to me, will throng around 

The leader you appoint, and come and go 

Under his banner ; and the work of God 

Will thrive through these, the while your own goes on. 

God will not be defrauded, nor yet man ; 

And you, who like the Pharisees make prayer 

At corners of the streets, for praise of men. 

Will have reward you seek." 

" Ay, verily I " 
Responded I with laughter. " Verily ! 
Though not a saint, I'll do a saintly work 
For my own profit, and in spite of all 
The selfishness that moves me. Better, this, 
Than I suspected. My sweet casuist — 
My gentle, learned, lovely casuist — 



144 Katkrina. 

I thank you ; and I'll pay you more than thanks, 
I'll promise that when these fine motives come, 
And volunteer their service, they shall find 
Welcome and entertainment, and a place 
Within the rank and file, with privilege 
Of quick promotion, so they show themselves 
Motives of mettle." 

This the type of talk 
That passed between us. I was not a fool 
To count her wisdom worthless ; nor a God, 
To work regeneration in myself. 
That something which I longed for, to fill up 
The measure of my good, was human praise ; 
Yet I could see that she was wholly right, 
And that she held within herself resource 
Of satisfaction better than my own. 
But I was quite content — content to know 
I trod the average altitude of those 
Within the paths of art, and had no aims 
To be misconstrued or misunderstood 
By Pride and Selfishness — that these, in truth. 
Expected of me what I had to give. 

Strange, how a man may carry in his heart, 
From year to year — through all his life, indeed— 
A truth, or a conviction, which shall be 



Kathrina. 145 

No more a part of it, and no more worth 

Than to his flask the cork that shps within ! 

Of this he learns by sourness of his wine, 

Or muddle of its color ; by the bits 

That vex his lips while drinking ; but he feels 

No impulse in his hand to draw it forth, 

And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils. 

I write this, here, not for its relevance 
To this one passage of my story, but 
Because there slipped into my consciousness 
Just at this juncture, and would not depart, 
A truth I carried there for many years. 
Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it. 
Yet never touching it with an attempt 
To draw it forth, and put it to its place. 

One evening, when our usual theme was up, 
I asked my wife in playful earnestness 
How she became so wise. " You talk," I said, 
" Like one who has survived a thousand years. 
And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives." 

*' Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God, 
Who giveth freely and upbraideth not," 
Was her reply. 
7 



146 Kathrina. 

'^ I never ask of God," 
I said. '' So, while you take at second hand 
His breathings to the artist, I will take 
At second hand the wisdom that he gives 
To you his teacher." 

*' Do you never pray ? " 

"Never," I answered her. '' I cannot pray : 
You know the reason. Never since the day 
God shut his heart against my mother's prayer 
Have I raised one petition, or been moved 
To reverence." 

Her long, dark lashes fell, 
And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears 
That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me. 
With tenderness beyond the reach of words. 
I did not seek her pity. I was proud, 
And asked her if she blamed me. 

"No," she said; 
" I have no right to blame you, and no wish. 
I marvel only that a man like you 
Can hold so long the errors of a boy. 
I've looked — with how much longing, words of mine 
Can never tell — for reason to restore 



Kathrina. 147 

That priceless thing which passion stole from you, 
And looked in vain." 

Though piqued by the reproach 
Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew);, 
I wished to learn where, in her theory 
Of human life, my case had found a place ; 
So, bidding pride aback, I questioned her. 
*' You are so wise in other things," I said, 
" And read so well God's dealings with his own. 
Perhaps you can explain this mystery 
That clouds my life." 

"I know that God is good," 
She answered, " and, although my reason fail 
To explicate the mystery that wraps 
His providence, it does not shake my faith. 
But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain, 
That Reason well may spare the staff of Faith 
To climb to its conclusions. You are loved, 
My husband : can you tell your wife for what ? " 

"Oh! modesty! my dear; hem! modesty! 
Spare me these blushes ! I have not at hand 
The printed catalogue of qualities 
Which give you inspiration, and decline 
The personal rehearsal." 



148 Kathrina, 

** You mistake," 
She answered, smiling. "Not for modesty; 
And as for blushes, they're not patent yet. 
But frankly, soberly, I ask you this : 
Have you a quality of heart or brain 
Which makes you lovable, and in my eyes 
A man to be admired, that was not born 
Quick in your blood ? Pray, have you anything 
Which you did not inherit ? Who to me 
Furnished my husband ? By what happy law 
Was all that was the finest, noblest, best 
In those who gave you life, bestowed on you ? 
You have your father's form, your father's brain : 
You have your mother's eyes, your mother's heart. 
Those twain produced a man for me to love, 
Out of themselves. I am obliged to them 
For the most precious good the round earth holds, 
Transmitted by a law that slew them both. 
It was not sin, or shame, for them to die 
Just as they died. They passed with whiter hands 
Up to The Throne than he who wantonly 
Murders a sparrow. When your mother prayed 
She prayed for the suspension qf the law 
By which from Eve, the mother of the race, 
She had received the grace and loveliness 
Which made her precious to your heart — the law 
By which alone she could convey these gifts 



Kathrina. 149 

To others of her blood. Your daughter's face 
Is beautiful, her soul is pure and sweet, 
By largess of this law. Could God subvert. 
To meet her wish, though shaped in agony. 
The law which, since the life of man began 
In life of God, has kept the channel clear 
For His own blood, that it might bless the last 
Of all the generations as the first ? 
What could He more than give her liberty — 
When reason lay in torture or in wreck. 
And life was death — to part with stainless hand 
The tie that held her from his loving breast ? " 

If God himself had dropped her words from heaven, 

They had not reached with surer plummet-plunge 

The depths of my conviction. I was dumb ; 

I opened not my mouth ; but left her side. 

And sought the crowded street. I felt that all 

Delusions, subterfuges, self-deceits, 

By which my soul had shut itself from God, 

Were stripped away, and that no barrier 

Was interposed between us which was not 

My own hand's building. Never, nevermore, 

Could I hold God in blame, or deem myself 

A guiltless, injured creature. I could see 

That I was hard, implacable, unjust ; 

And that by force of wilful choice I held 



1 50 Kathrina. 

Myself from God ; for no impulsion came 
To seek his face and favor. Nay, I feared 
And fought such incidence, as enemy 
Of all my plans. 

So it became thenceforth 
A problem with me how to separate 
My new conviction from my life — to hold 
A revolutionizing truth within, 
And hold it yet so loosely, it should be 
Like a dumb alien in a mural town — 
No guest, but an intruder, who might bide, 
By law or grace, but win no domicile, 
And hold no power. 

When I returned, that night, 
My course was chosen, with such sense of guilt 
I blushed before the calm, inquiring eyes 
That met me at my threshhold ; but the theme 
Was dropped just there. My gentle mentor read 
The secret of the struggle and the sin, 
And left me to myself. 

At the set time, 
I entered on my task. The discipline 
Of early years told feebly on my work. 
For dissipation and disuse of power 



Kathrina. 151 

Had brought me back to infancy again. 

My will was weak, my patience was at fault, 

And in my fretful helplessness, I stormed 

And sighed by turns ; yet still I held in force 

Determination, as reserve of will ; 

And when I flinched or faltered, always fell 

Back upon that, and saved my powers from rout. 

Casting, recasting, till I found the germ 

Of my conception putting forth its whorls 

In orderly succession round the stem 

Of my design, that straight and strong shot up 

Toward inflorescence, my long work went on, 

Till I was filled with satisfying joy. 

This lasted for a little time, and then 

There came reaction. I grew tired of it. 

My verses were as meaningless and stale 

As doggrel of the stalls. I marvelled much 

That they could ever have beguiled my pride 

Into self-gratulation, or done aught 

But overwhelm me with contempt for them, 

And the dull pen that wrote them. 

I had hoped 
To form and finish my projected work 
Within, and by, myself, — to tease no ear 
With fragmentary snatches of my song, 
And call for no support from friendly praise 



152 Kathrina, 

To reinforce my courage ; but the stress 
Of my disgust and my despair — the need, 
Imperative and absolute, to brace myself 
By some opinion borrowed for the nonce, 
And bathe my spirit in the sympathy 
Of some strong nature — mastered my intent, 
And sent me for resource to her whose heart 
Was ever open to my call. 

She sat 
Through the long hour in which I read to her. 
Absorbed, entranced, as one who sits alone 
Within a dim cathedral, and resigns 
His spirit to the organ-theme, that mounts. 
Or sinks in tremulous pauses, or sweeps out 
On mighty pinions and with trumpet voice 
Through labyrinthine harmonies, at last 
Emerging, and through silver clouds of sound 
Receding and receding, till it melts 
In the abysses of the upper sky. 
It was not needful she should say a word ; 
For in her glowing eyes and kindling face, 
I caught the full assurance that my heart 
Had yearned for ; but she spoke her hearty praise ; 
And when I asked her for her criticism, 
Bestowed it with such modest deference 
To my opinion, as to spare my pride ; 



Kathriiia. 153 

Yet, with such subtle sense of harmony, 
And insight of proportion, that I saw- 
That I should find no critic in the world 
More competent or more severe. I said. 
Gulping my pride : '' Better this ordeal 
In friendly hands, before the time of types, 
Than afterward, in hands of enemies ! " 

So, from that reading, it was understood 
Between us that, whenever I essayed 
Revising and retouching, I should know 
Her intimate impressions, and receive 
Her frank suggestions. In this oversight 
And constant interest of one whose mind 
Was excellent and pure, and raised above 
All motive to beguile me, I secured 
New inspiration. 

Weeks and months passed by 
With gradient hopefulness, and strength renewed 
At each renewal of the confidence 
I had reposed in her ; till I perceived 
That I was living on her praise — that she 
Held God's place in me and the multitude's. 
And now, as I look back upon those days 
Of difficult endeavor, I confess 
That had she not been with me, I had failed — 
7* 



1 54 Kathrina. 

Ay, foundered in mid- sea — my hope, my life, 
The spoil of deep oblivion. 

At last 
The work was done — the labored volume closed. 
" I cannot make it better," I exclaimed. 
'' I can write better, but, before I write, 
I must have recognition in the voice 
Of public praise. A good paymaster pays 
When work is finished. Let him pay for this. 
And I will work again ; but, till he pay. 
My leisure is my own, and I will wait." 

'' And if he grudge your wage?" suggested she 
To whom I spoke. 

" I shall be finished too." 

Came then the proofs and latest polishing 
Of words and phrases — work I shared with her 
To whom I owed so much ; and then the fear. 
The deathly heart-fall, and the haunting dread 
That go before exposure to the world 
Of inmost life, and utmost reach of power 
Toward revelation ; — then the shrinking spell, 
When morbid love of self awaits in pain 
The verdict it has courted. 



Kathrina. 155 

But at last 
The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine — 
Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life, 
Skipping the pavement — I walked down Broadway, 
To ease the restlessness and cool the heat , 
That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed 
A showy window, filled with costly books, 
My little girl exclaimed: "Oh, father! See! 
There is your name ! " 

Straight all the bravery 
Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped, 
And I was limp as water ; but I paused. 
And read the placard. It announced my book 
In characters of flame, with adjectives 
My daring publisher had filched, I think 
From an old circus broadside. 

" Well ! " thought I— 
Biting my lip — ^^ I'm in the market now! 
How much — O ! rattling, roaring multitude ! 
O ! selfish, cheating, lying multitude ! 
O! hawking, trading, delving multitude! — 
How much for one man's hope, for one man's 

life? 
What for his toil and pain ? — his heart's red blood ? 
What for his brains and breeding? Oh, how much 



1 56 Kathrina. 

For one who craves your praises with your pence, 
And dies with your denial ? " 

I went in, 
And bought my book — not doubting I was first 
To give response to my apostrophe. 
The smug old clerl?, who found his length of ear 
Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus 
Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade. 
Wrapped my dear bantling well ; and, as he dropped 
My dollar in his till, smiled languidly 
Upon my little girl, and said to me — 
To cheer me in my purchase — that the book 
Was thought to be a deuced clever thing. 
He never read such books ; he had no time ; 
Indeed, he had no interest in them. 
Still, other people had, and it was well. 
For it helped trade along. 

It was for him — 
A vulgar fraction of the integral 
We speak of as "the people," and "the world"— 
I had been writing ! Had he read my book. 
And given it his praise, I should have been 
Delighted, though I knew that his applause 
Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool 
Undoubtedly ; yet I could understand, 



Kathrina. 157 

Better than e'er before, how separate 
The artist is from such a soul as his — 
What need of teachers and interpreters 
To crumble in his pewter porringer 
The rounded loaf^ whose crust was adamant 
To his weak fingers. 

The next morning's press 
Was purchased early, though I read in vain 
To find my reputation. But at night, 
My door-bell rang ; and I received a note 
From one who edited an evening print, 
(I had dined with him at my publisher's), 
Inclosing a review, and venturing 
The hope that I should like it. 

Cunning man ! 
He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit. 
My poem was ^' a revelation." I had ** burst 
Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky." 
Well, not to quote his language, this the drift : 
A man of fortune, living at his ease. 
But fond of manly effort, had sat down. 
And turned his culture to supreme account ; 
And he — the editor — took on himself 
To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal, 
The poet had betrayed the continence 



158. Kathrina. 

Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly, 
The consciousness of power from early youth; 
But, yielding never to the itch for print, 
Had nursed and chastened and developed it. 
Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre 
With magic of a master. 

Followed here 
Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood 
Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type 
Before their time — pale stems that spun their flowers 
In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came, 
Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see, 
In such an age of sentimental cant. 
One man who dared to hold up to the world 
A creature of his brain, and say : '' Look you I 
This is my thought ; and it shall stand alone. 
It has no moral, bears no ministry 
Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal 
To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs 
Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare 
The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb 
That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells 
That hang above the brooks, present the world 
With no apology for being there, 
And no attempt to justify themselves 
In uselessness. It is enough for God 



Kathrina. 1 59 

That they are beautiful, and hold his thought 
In fine embodiment ; and it shall be 
Enough for me that, in this book of mine, 
I have created somewhat that is strong 
And beautiful, which, if it profit, — well : 
If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, 
And holds its being by no feebler right." 

Ay, it was glorious to find one man 
Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus, 
Nor chained him to a rag- cart, loaded down 
With moral frippery, and strings of bells 
To call the people to their windows. 

Then 
There followed extracts, with a change of type 
To mark the places where the editor 
Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared 
Might slip detection under slower eyes 
Than those he carried ; or to emphasize 
Felicities of diction that were stiff 
In Roman verticals, but grew divine 
At the Italic angle ; then apology. 
Profoundly humble, to his patrons all 
For quoting at such length, and one to me 
For quoting anything, and deep regrets. 
In quite a general way, that lack of space 



i6o Kathrina, 

Forbade a reproduction of the book 

From title-page to tail-piece, winding up 

With counsel to all lovers of pure art, 

Patrons of genius, all Americans, 

All friends of cis-Atlantic literature, 

To buy the book, and read it for themselves. 

I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught j 

Tipping the tankard high, that I might see 

My features at the bottom, and regale 

My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed 

The paper to my wife, and bade her read. 

I watched her while she read, but failed , to find 

The sympathy of pleasure in her face 

I had expected. Finishing at last. 

She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me. 

Said thoughtfully : '* You like this, I suspect." 

" Well, truly ! " I responded, " since it seems 
To be the first instalment of the wage 
Which you suggested might come grudgingly. 
Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails 
In nice discrimination, — that it slurs 
Defects which I perceive as well as you ; 
But it is kind, and places in best light 
Such excellences as we both may find — 
May claim, indeed." 



Kathrina. i6i 

** And yet, it is a lie, 
Or what the editor would call * a puff,' 
From first to last. The ' continence,' my dear, 
' Of genius ! ' What of that ? And what about 
The ' manly effort,' for whose exercise 
fie thanked you on the world's behalf? And so 
Your nursing, chastening and developing 
Of power ! — Pray what of these ? " 

" Oh ! wife ! " I said, 
" Don't spoil it all ! Be pitiful, my love ! 
I am a baby — granted : so I need 
The touch of tender hands, and something sweet 
To keep me happy." 

" Babies take a bath. 
Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love 
Filches the chill, and you must have one dash," 
She answered me, " to close your complement. 
The weakest spot in all your book, he found 
With a quick instinct ; and on that he spent 
His sharpest force and finest rhetoric. 
Shoring and bracing it on every side 
With bold assumptions and affirmatives, 
To blind the eyes of novices, and scare 
With fierce forestalment all the critic-quills 
Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once 



1 62 Kathrina. 

Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps, 

The tickle of the taste, and that it bore 

Upon its glowing gold small food for life. 

He saw just there the point to be attacked ; 

And there threw up his earth-works, and spread 

out 
His thorned abattis. He was very kind 
Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too ; 
For well he knew that there are earnest souls 
In the broad world, who claim that highest art 
Is highest ministry to human need ; 
And that the artist has no Christian right 
To prostitute his art to selfish ends, 
Or make it vehicle alone of plums 
For the world's pudding." 

" These will speak in time,* 
Responded I; "but they have not the ear 
Of the broad world, I think. The Christian right 
Of which you speak is hardly recognized 
Among the multitude, or by the guild 
In which I claim a place. The sectaries 
Who furnish folios, quartos, magazines, 
To the religious few, are limited 
In influence ; and these, my wife, are all 
I have to fear ; — nay, could I but arouse 
Their bitter enmity, I might receive 



Kathrina. 163 

Such superflux of praise and patronage 
As would overwhelm my sweetly Christian wife 
With shame and misery. But we shall see ; 
And, in the meantime, let us be content 
That, if one man shall praise me overmuch, 
Ten, at the least, will fail to render me 
Befitting justice." 

As the days went on. 
Reviews and notices came pouring in. 
I was notorious, at least ; and fame, 
I whispered comfortably to myself, 
Is only notoriety turned gray, 
With less of fire, if more of steadiness. 
The adverse verdicts were not numerous ; 
And these were rendered, as I fancied then, 
By sanctimonious fools who deemed profane 
All verse outside their thumb -worn hymnodies., 
My book received the rattling fusilade 
Of all the dailies: then the artillery 
Of the hebdomadals, whose noisy shells. 
Though timed by fuse to burst on Saturday, 
Exploded at the middle of the week ; 
At last, a hundred-pounder quarterly 
Gave it a single missive from its mask 
Of far and dark impersonality. 
The smoke cleared up, and still my colors flew. 



104 Kathrina, 

And still my book stood proudly in the sun, 
Nor breached nor battered. 

I had won a place : 
That I was sure of. All had said of me 
That I was ^'brilliant:" was not that enough? 
The petty pesterers, with card and stamp, 
Who hunt for autographs, were after me, 
In packages by post ; and idle men 
Held me at corners by the button-hole. 
And introduced me to their friends. I dined 
With meek-eyed men, whose literary wives 
Were dying all to know me, as they said ; 
And the lyceums, quick at scent and sight — 
Watching the jungles for a lion — all 
Courted the delectation of my roar 
Upon their platforms, pledging to my hand 
(With city reference to stanchest names), 
Such honoraria as would have been 
The lion's share of profits. These were straws ; 
But they had surer fingers for the wind 
Than withes or weathercocks. 

The book sold well. 
My publisher (who published at my risk. 
And first put on the airs of one who stooped 
To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed 



Kathrina. 165 

With courtesy; and ere a year was gone, 

Became importunate for something more. 

This was his plea : I owed it to myself 

To write again. The time to make one's hay 

is when the sun shines : time to write one's books 

Is when the public humor turns to them. 

The public would forget me in a year, 

And seek another idol ; or, meanwhile, 

Another writer might usurp my throne. 

And I be hooted from my own domain 

As a pretender. Then the market's maw 

Was greedy for my poems. Just how long 

The appetite would last, he could not tell, 

For appetite is subject of caprice. 

And never lasts too long. 

The man was wise, 
I plainly saw, and gave me the results 
Of observation and experience. 
I took his hint, accepting with a pang 
The truths that came with it : for instance, these :— 
That he who speaks for praise of those who live. 
Must keep himself before his audience. 
Nor look for '' bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear!" 
And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except 
With fresh occasion ; that applause of crowds, 
Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage; 



1 66 Kathrina. 

That good paymasters, having paid for work 
The doer's price, expect receipt in full 
At even date ; and that if I would keep 
My place, as grand purveyor to the greed 
For novelties of literary art, 
My viands must be sapid, and abound 
With change, to wake or whet the appetite 
I sought to feed. 

I say I took his hint. 
Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt, 
Though in my interest. For ten long years 
It was the basis of my policy. 
I poured my poems with redundancy 
Upon the world, and won redundant meed. 
If I gave much, the world was generous, 
Repaying more than justice : but, at last, 
Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen. 
I knew my work would not outlast my life, 
That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves 
Around my name were withering away. 
With every breath of fragrance they exhaled ; 
And that, too soon, the active brain and hand 
Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail 
Under the press of weariness and years. 
My reputation piqued me. None believed 
That it was in me to write otherwise 



Kathrina. 167 

Than I had written. All the world had laughed, 
Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed 
A work beyond the round of brilliancies 
In which my pen had revelled, and for which 
It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked, 
Or came to look, with measureless contempt 
On those who gave with such munificence 
The boon I sought, I had provoking cause. 
I fooled them all with patent worthlessness, 
And they insisted I should fool them still. 
The wisdom of a whole decade had failed 
To teach them that the thing my hand had done 
Was not worth doing. 

More and worse than this : 
I found my character and self-respect 
Eroded by the canker of conceit. 
Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey 
Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask, 
Who live upon the laughter of the throng 
That crowds their reeking amphitheatres ; 
Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace 
To gaping lechers of the pit, to win 
That which shall feed their shameless vanity ; 
The mimics of the buskin — ^baser still. 
The mimics of the negro — minstrel-bands, 
With capital of corks and castanets 



1 68 Kathrina. 

And threadbare jests — Ah ! who and what was I 
But brother of all these — in higher walk, 
But brother in the motive of my life, 
In jealousy, in recompense for toil, 
And, last, in destiny? 

My wife had caught 
Stray silver in her hair in these long years ; 
And the sweet maiden springing from our lives 
Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits. 
Which drank my time and my vitality, 
I had neglected them. I worked at home, 
But lived in other scenes, for other lives. 
Or, rather, for my own ; and though my pride 
Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace 
To call them to me, and confess my shame, 
And beg for their forgiveness. 

Once again- 
All explanations passed — I sat beside 
My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old 
New plans of life. I found her still the same 
In purpose and in magnanimity ; 
For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame ; 
Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies 
Of failure ; felt no triumph which rejoiced 
To mock me with the words, '' I told you so." 



Kathrina. 169 

Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech, 
To heal the bruises of my fall ; to wake 
A better feeling in me toward the world. 
And soothe my morbid self- contempt. 

The world. 
She said, is apt to take a public man 
At his own estimate, and yield him place 
According to his choice. I had essayed 
To please the world, and gather in its praise ; 
And, certainly, the world was pleased with me, 
And had not stinted me in its return 
Of plauditory payment. As the world 
Had taken me according to my rate, 
And filled my wish, it had a valid claim 
On my good nature. 

Then, beyond all this, 
The world was not a fool. Those books of mine, 
That I had come to look upon as trash. 
Were not all trash. My motive had been poor. 
And that had vitiated them for me ; 
But there was much in them that yielded strength 
To struggling souls, and, to the wounded, balm. 
Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself. 
They were all pure ; they made no foul appeal 
To baseness and brutality ; they had 



170 Kathrina. 

An element of gentle chivalry, 
Such as must have a place in any man 
Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself. 
From a fine reputation, scorning it 
For motive which had won it. 

Words like these, 
From lips like hers, were needed medicine. 
They clarified my weak and jaundiced sight, 
And helped to juster vision of the world. 
And of myself. But there was no return 
Of the old greed ; and fame, which I had learned 
To be an entity quite different 
From my conceit of it in other days. 
Was something much too far and nebulous 
To be my star of life. 

" You have some plan ? " — 
Statement and query in same words, which fell 
From lips that sought to rehabilitate 
My will and self-respect. 

" I have," I said. 

*' Else you were dead," responded she. *' To live. 
Men must have plans. When these die out of men 
They crumble into chaos, or relapse 



Kathrina. 1 7 1 

Into inanity. Will you reveal 
These plans of yours to me ? " 

''Ay, if I can," 
I answered her ; " but first I must reveal 
The base on which I build them. I have tried 
To find the occasion of my discontent. 
And find it, as I think, just here ; in quest 
Of popularity, I have become 
Untrue both to myself and to my art. 
I have not dared to speak the royal truth 
For fear of censure ; I have been a slave 
To men's opinions. What is best in me 
Has been debauched by the pursuit of praise 
As life's best prize. Conviction, sentiment. 
All love and hate, all sense of right and wrong, 
I have held in abeyance, or compelled 
To work in menial subservience 
To my grand purpose. If my sentiment 
Or my conviction were but popular, 
It flowed in hearty numbers : otherwise, 
It slept in silence. 

" Now as to my art : 
I find that it has suffered like myself. 
And suffered from same cause. My verse has been 
Shaped evermore to meet the people's thought. 



172 Kathrina. 

That which was highest, grandest in my art 

I have not reached, and have not tried to reach, 

I have but touched the surfaces of things 

That meet the common vision ; and my art 

Has only aimed to clothe them gracefully 

With fancy's gaudy fabrics, or portray 

Their patent beauties and deformities. 

Above the people in my gift and art, 

Both gift and art have had a downward trend 

And both are prostitute. 

" Discarding praise 
As motive of my labor, I confess 
My sins against my art, and so, henceforth, 
As to my goddess, give myself to her. 
The chivalry which you are pleased to note 
In me and works of mine, turns loyally 
To her and to her service. Nevermore 
Shall pen of mine demean itself by work 
That serves not first, and with supreme intent, 
The art whose slave it is." 

'^ I understand, 
I think, the basis of your plan," she said ; 
" And e'en the plan itself. You now propose 
To write without remotest reference 
To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs, 



Kathrina. 173 

Or e'en the world's opinions, — quite content 
If the world find aught in you to applaud ; 
Quite as content if it condemn. With full 
Expression of yourself in finest terms 
And noblest forms of art, so far as God 
Has made you masterful, you give yourself 
Up to yourself and to your art. Is this 
Fair statement of your purpose ? " 

" Not unfair,'* 
I answered. " Tell me what you think of it." 

" Suppose," she said, *' that all the artist-souls 

That God has made since time and art began 

Had acted on your theory : suppose 

In architecture, picture, poetry, 

Naught had found utterance but works that sprang 

To satisfy the worker, and reveal 

That bundle of ideas which, to him. 

Is constituted art; but which, in truth. 

Is figment of his fancy, or his thought, — 

His creature, made his God — say where were all 

The temples, palaces and homes of men ; 

The galleries that blaze with history. 

Or bloom with landscape, or look down 

With smile of changeless love or loveliness 

Into the hearts of men ? And where were all 



174 Kathrina, 

The poems that give measure to their praise, 

Voice to their aspirations, forms of Ught 

To homely facts and features of their Ufe, 

Enveloping this plain, prosaic world 

In an ideal atmosphere, in which 

Fair angels come and go ? All gifts of men 

Were made for use, and made for highest use. 

If highest use be service of one's self, 

And highest standard, one's embodiment 

Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art, 

As art's identity, then are you right ; 

But if a higher use of gift and art 

Be service of mankind, and higher rule 

God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds, 

And verified by life, then are you wrong." 

"But art?" — responded I — "you do not mean 
That art is nothing but a thing of thought. 
Or, less than that, of fancy ? Nay, I claim 
That it is somewhat — a grand entity — 
An organism of lofty principles. 
Informed with subtlest life, and clothed upon 
With usage and tradition of the men 
W^ho, working in those sunny provinces 
Where it holds eminent domain, have brought 
To build its temple and adorn its walls 
The usufruct of countless lives. So far 



Kathrma. 175 

Is art from being creature of man's thought 

That it is subject of his knowledge — stands 

In mighty mystery, and challenges 

The study of the world ; rules noblest minds 

Like law or like religion ; is a power 

To which the proudest artist- spirits bow 

With humblest homage. Is astronomy 

The creature of man's thought ? Is chemistry ? 

Yet these hold not, in this our universe, 

A form more definite, nor yet a place 

In human knowledge more beyond dispute, 

Than art itself. To this embodiment 

Of theory — of dogmas, if you will — 

This body aggregate of truth revealed 

In growing light of ages to the eyes 

Touched to perception, I devote my life." 

*' Nay, you're too fast," she said : "let alchemy 

And old astrology present your thought. 

These were somewhat ; these were grand entities ; 

But they went out like candles in thin air 

When knowledge came. The sciences are things 

Of law, of force, relations, measurements. 

Affinities and combinations, all 

The definite, demonstrable effects 

Of first and second causes. Between these 

And men's opinions, braced by usages. 



lyG . Kathrina. 

The space is wide. The thing which you call art 

Is anything but definite in form, 

Or fixed in law. It has as many shapes 

As worshippers. The world has many books, 

Written by earnest men, about this art ; 

But having read them, we are no more wise 

Than he whose observation of the sun 

Is taken by kaleidoscope. The more 

He sees in it, the more he is confused. 

The sun works, doubtless, many fine effects 

With what he sees, but he sees not the sun." 

" But art is art," I said. " You'd cheat my sensCj 
And mock my reason too. Ay, art is art. 
Things must have being that have history." 

Then she : *^ Yes, politics has history. 

And therefore has a being, — has, in truth. 

Just such a being as I grant to art — 

A being of opinions. Every state 

Has origin and ends of government 

Peculiarly its own, and so, from these, 

Constructs its theory of politics, 

And holds this theory against the world ; 

And holds it well. There is no fixedness 

Or form of politics for all mankind ; 

And there is none of art. Each artist-soul 



Kathrina. 177 

Is its own law ; and he who dares to bring 

From work of other man, to lay on yours, 

His square and compass — thus declaring him 

The pattern man — and tells, by him, you lack 

Just so much here, or wander so much there, 

Thereby confesses just how much he lacks. 

Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man 

Has special gift of power and end of life. 

No man is great who lives by other law 

Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth. 

The Lind is great because she is the Lind, 

And not the Malibran. Recorded art 

Is yours to study — e'en to imitate, 

In education — imitate or shun, 

As the case warrants ; but it has destroyed, 

Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God 

Than it has ever fanned to life or fed. 

Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks 

Makes no discoveries. Show me the man 

Who, leaving God and nature and himself. 

Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain 

With maxims, notions, usages and rules. 

And yields his fancy up to leading-strings. 

And I shall see a man who never did 

A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art — 

Nay, in the name of God — do no such thing 

As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine, 
8* 



178 Kathrina. 

Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust, 
Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees, 
And lives on broken victuals ! " 

" Drive, my dear! 
Drive on, and over me ! You're on the old 
High-stepping horse to-night; so give him rein. 
For exercise is good," I said, in mirth. 
" You sit your courser finely. I confess 
I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased 
With your accomplishments to check your speed. 
Drive on, my love ! drive on ! " 

" I thank you, sir! 
No one so gracious as your grudging man 
Under compulsion ! With your kind consent 
I'll ride a little further," she replied, — 
*'For I enjoy it cjuite as much as you — 
The more because you've given me little chance 
In these last years. . . . Now, soberly, this art— • 
Of which we talk so much, without the power 
To tell exactly what we understand 
By the hack term — suppose we take the word, 
And try to find its meaning. You recall 
Old John who dressed the borders in our court : 
You called him, hired him, told him what to do^ 
He and his rake stood interposed between 



Kathrina, 1 79 

You and your work. You chose his skilful hands, 

Endowing them with pay, or pledge of pay, 

And set him at his labor. Now suppose 

Old John had had a philosophic turn 

After you left him, and had thought like this : 

* I am called here to do a certain work — 

My rake tells what ; and he who called me here 

Has given me the motive for the job. 

The work is plain. These borders are to be 

Levelled and cleaned of weeds : my hand and rake 

Are fitted for the service ; — this my art ; 

And it is first of all the arts. There's none 

More ancient, useful, worshipful, indeed. 

Than agriculture. Adam practised it ; 

Poets have sung its praises ; and the great 

Of every age have loved and honored it. 

This art is greater than the man I serve. 

And greater than his borders. Therefore I 

Will serve my art, and let the borders lie, 

And my employer whistle. True to that. 

And to myself, it matters not to me 

What weeds may grow, or what the master think 

Of my proceeding ! ' 

"So, intent on this, 
He hangs his rake upon your garden wall, 
And steals your clematis, with which to wind 



1 80 Kathrina, 

The handle upward ; then o'erfills his hands 

With roses and geraniums, and weaves 

Their beauty into laurel, for a crown 

For his slim god, completing his devoir 

By buttering the teeth, and kneeling down 

In abject homage. Pray, what would you say, 

At close of day, when you should go to see 

Your untouched borders, and your gardener 

At genuflexion, with your mignonette 

In every button-hole ? Remember, now, 

He has been true to art and to himself, 

According to his notion ; nor forget 

To take along a dollar for his hire. 

Which he expects, of course ! What would you say ? " 

*' Oh, don't mind that: you've reached your 'fifthly' 

now, 
And here the ' application ' comes," I said. 

*' I think," responded she, with an arch smile, 

*' The application's needless : but you men 

Are so obtuse, when will is in the way. 

That I will do your bidding. Every gift 

That God bestows on men holds in itself 

The secret of its office, like the rake 

The gardener wields. The rake was made to till — 

Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that ; 



Kathrina. i8i 

And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift 

So fashioned and adapted, that it stands 

In like relation of supremest use 

To life of men, the office of your gift 

Has perfect definition. Gift like this 

Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands 

God placed it for the service of himself, 

In service of your kind. Taking this gift, 

And using it for God and for the world, 

In your own way, and in your own best way ; 

Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere 

To guide your careful hand ; and opening wide 

To spiritual influx all your soul, 

That so your master may breathe into you, 

And breathe his great life through you, in such forms 

Of pure presentment as he gives you skill 

To build withal — that's all Oi art — for you. 

Art is an instrument, and not an end — 

A servant, not a master, nor a God 

To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes ? 

Honor of art, by him whose work is art, 

Is a fine passion ; but he honors most 

Whose use and end are best." 

*' Use ! Use ! Use ! " 
I cried impatiently; — "nothing but use! 
As if God never made a violet, 



1 82 Kathriiia. 

Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold 

Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch 

Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world — 

A universe, indeed — stars, firmament, 

The vastitudes of forest and of sea, 

Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads 

And fluff of breezy hills — with tints that range 

The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave 

No glint or glory of the changeful light 

Without a revelation ! Is this use — 

I beg your pardon, love : you say * this art ' — 

The sum and end of art? If it be so, 

Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks 

Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes 

That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam ? 

Burns the tree better that its leaves are green? 

Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy 

Of gold or rose ? " 

" Yet beauty has its use," 
Responded she. " Whatever elevates 
Inspires, refreshes, any human soul. 
Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use 
For you and me. The dainty violet 
Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there 
And we are gainers through its ministry. 
All God's great values wear the drapery 



Kathrina. 183 

That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth, 
Be incident of art and not be end — 
Its form, condition, features, dress, and still 
The humblest value of the things of art. 
This truth obtains in all God's artistry. 
Does God make beauty for himself, alone ? 
He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need 
To kindle rushes that he may behold 
The glory of his thoughts ? or need to use 
His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay 
That he may study models ? For an end 
Outside himself, he ever speaks himself; 
And end, with him, is use." 

" Well, I confess 
There's truth in what you utter," I replied ; — 
*' A modicum of truth, at least ; and still 
There's something more which this our subtle talk 
Has failed to give us. I will not affirm 
That art, recorded in its thousand forms. 
And clothed with usages, traditions, rules, — 
The thing of history — the mighty pile 
Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down 
To heap the puzzled present — is the sum 
And substance of all art. I will not claim — 
Nay, mark me now — I will not even claim 
That beauty is art's end, or has its end 



rB4 Kathrina. 

Within itself. Our tedious colloquy 

Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought, 

And given me cleaner vision. I can see 

Before, around me, underneath, above, 

The great unrealized \ and while I bow 

To the traditions and the things of art. 

And hold my theories, I find myself 

Inspired supremely by the Possible 

That calls for revelation — ^by the forms 

That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms 

Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands 

At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire, 

Imploring for release. I turn from men. 

And stretch my hands toward these. I feel — I know— > 

That there are mighty myriads waiting there. 

And listening for my steps. Suppose my age 

Should fail to give them welcome : ay, suppose 

They may not help a man to coin a dime 

Or cook a dinner : they will fare as well 

As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms 

Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint 

His utterance because no creature hears ? 

Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend 

Brave life and precious treasure in a search 

For palpitating water at the pole. 

That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled, 

Though pearls are not increased ; and something less 



Kathrina. 1 85 

To probe the Possible in art, or sit 

Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse 

Of the live truth that quivers with the jar 

Of movement at its axle ? Is it good 

To garner gain beyond the present need. 

Won by excursive commerce in all seas ; 

And something less to pile redundantly 

The spoil of thought ? " 

" These latest words of yours," 
She answered musingly, '^ impress me much; 
And yet, I think I see where they will lead, 
Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy 
Is beautiful but vague. The Possible 
Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul. 
With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight ; 
Yet I would help your courage, for I see 
Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove 
Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good ; 
And take my blessing with you." 

Then she rose, 
And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face. 
By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled 
By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes. 
She spoke not; but I heard the sigh she breathed— 
The long-drawn, weary sigh — as she retired ; 



1 86 KatJirina. 

And then the Possible, which had inspired 
So wondrously my hope, drooped low around, 
And filled me with foreboding. 

Had her life 
Been chilled by my neglect? Was it on wane? 
Could she be lost to me ? Oh ! then I felt, 
As I had never felt before, how mean 
Beside one true affection is the best 
Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth 
The world would be without her love — herself! 

But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat 
At our bright board, in her accustomed place ; 
And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile, 
Or cheerfuUer. My quick fears died away; 
And though I saw that she had lost the fire 
Of her young life, I comforted myself 
With thinking that it was the same with me — 
The sure result of years. 

My time I gave 
To my new passion, rioting at large 
In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought 
To which the passion bore me, and from which 
I strove to gather for embodiment 
Material of art. 



Kathrina. 1 87 

The more I dreamed, 
The broader grew my dream. The further on 
My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the Hght ; 
Till, half in terror, half in reverence, 
I learned that I had broached the Infinite ! 
I had not thought my Possible could bear 
Such name as this, or wear such attribute ; 
And shrank befitting distance from the front 
Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame, 
That scorched and scared me. 

So, more humble grown, 
And less adventurous, I chose, at last. 
My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote. 
My faculties, grown strong and keen by use, 
Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness. 
And glowed with high endeavor. All of power 
I had within me flowed into my hand ; 
And learning, language — all my life's resource — 
Lay close around my enterprise, and poured 
Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words 
Faster than I could use it. For long weeks, 
My ardent labor crowded all my days. 
Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams : 
And then the work was done. 

I left it there, 
And sought for recreative rest in scenes 



1 88 Kathrina. 

That once had charmed me — in society 
Where I was welcome : but the common talk 
Of daily news — of politics and trade — 
Was senseless as the chatter of the jays 
In autumn forests. No refreshing balm 
Came to me in the sympathy of men. 
In my retirement, I had left the world 
To go its way ; and it had gone its way, 
And left me hopelessly. 

I told my wife 
Of my dissatisfaction and disgust, 
But found small comfort in her words. She said ; 
"The world is wide, and woman's vision short; 
But I have never seen a man who turned 
His efforts from his kind, and failed to spoil 
All men for him — himself, indeed, for them ; 
And he who gives nor sympathy nor aid 
To the poor race from which he seeks such boon 
Must be rejoiced if it be generous ; 
Content, if it be just. Society 
Is a grand scheme of service and return. 
We give and take ; and he who gives the most, 
In ways directest, wins the best reward." 

By purpose, I closed eyes upon my work 
For many weeks, resisting every day 



Kathrina. 189 

The impulse to review the glowing dream 

My fancy had engendered : for I wished 

To go with faculty and fancy cooled 

To its perusal. I had strong desire, 

So far as in me lay, to see the work 

With the world's eyes, for reasons — ah! I shrink 

From writing them! All men are sometimes weak, 

And some are inconsistent with their wills. 

If I were one of these, think not I failed 

To justify my weakness to myself, 

In ways that saved my pride. 

Yet this was true : 
I had an honest wish to learn how far 
My work of heat had power to re-inspire 
The soul that wrought it, and how well my verse 
Had clothed and kept the creature of my thought ; 
For memory still retained the loveliness 
That filled the fresh conceit. 

When, in good time. 
Rest and diversion had performed their work. 
And the long fever of my brain was gone, 
I broached my feast, first making fast my door, 
That so no eye should mark my greedy joy 
Or my grimaces, — doubtful of the fate 
That waited expectation. 



190 Kathrina, 

It were vain 
To try, in these tame words, to paint the pang, 
The faintness and the chill, which overwhelmed 
My disappointed heart. My welded thoughts 
Which, in their whitest heat, had bent and bound 
My language to themselves, imparting grace 
To stiffest words, and meanings fresh and fine 
To simplest phrases, interfusing all 
With their own ardency, and shining through 
With smoothly rounded beauty, lay in heaps 
Of cold, unmeaning ugliness. My words 
Had shrunk to old proportions, and stood out 
In hard, stiff angles, challenging a guess 
Of what they covered. 

Meaningless to me. 
Who knew the meaning that had once informed 
Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope 
That, to my own, or any future age. 
My work should speak its full significance? 
My latest child, begot in manly joy. 
Conceived in purity, and born in toil, 
Lay dead before me, — dead, and in the shroud 
My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked 
To be its chrisom. 

Then the first I learned 
Where language finds its bound — learned that beyond 



Kathrina. 19X 

The range of human commerce, save by force, 
It never moves, nor lingers in the reahn 
It thus invades, a moment, if the voice 
Of human commerce speak not the demand ; — 
That language is a thing of use ; — that thought 
Which seeks a revelation, first must seek 
Adjustment in the scale of human need, 
Or find no fitting vehicle. 

And more : 
That the great Possible which lies outside 
The range of commerce is identical 
With the stupendous Infinite of God, 
Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints 
Of vague significance, so dim, so vast, 
That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks 
From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep 
The perfumed air! 

I closed my manuscript. 
And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth, 
I sought the bustle of the street, to drown 
In the great roar of careless toil, the pain 
That brings despair. My last resource was gone; 
And as I brooded o'er the awful blank 
Of hopeless life that waited for my steps, 
A fear which I had feared to entertain 



192 Kathrina. 

Found entrance to my heart, and held it still. 
Almost to bursting. 

Not alone my life 
Was sliding from me ; for my better life, 
My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown, 
My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier 
With every passing day, arose each morn 
From wasting dreams to paler loveliness, 
And sank in growing weariness each night, 
And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed. 
Her bed ! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed ! 
Bed sanctified by love ! Bed blest of God 
With fruit immortal ! Bed too soon to be 
Crowned with the glory of a Christian death ! 
Ah God ! How it brought back the agony, 
And the rebellious hate of other years — 
The hopeless struggle of my will with Him 
Whose will is law ! 

Thus torn with mingled thoughts 
Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away 
Miles of wild wandering about the streets, 
Till weariness at last compelled my feet 
To drag me to my home. 

Before my door 
Stood the familiar chair of one whose call 



Kathrina. 193 

Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick 
With flutter of foreboding and foredoom ; 
But in swift silence I flew up the steps, 
And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side 
Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me. 
But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands 
With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast — 
True home of love, and love and home to me — 
The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame 
From lips it left in ashes. 

In her smile 
Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse 
Of that aureola of fadeless light 
Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope 
That when my time shall come to follow her. 
My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped 
By the familiar glory, which to-night 
Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams ! 
9 



DESPAIR. 

Ah ! what is so dead as a perished delight ! 

Or a passion outlived ! or a scheme overthrown ! 
Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its ^ight, 

Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone! 

The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need, 
The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers ; 

And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead 

The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours. 

But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath : 
No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save ; 

For the song of its life is the sigh of its death, 
And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its 
grave. 

Ah ! what is our love, with its tincture of lust. 

And its pleasure that pains us and pain that en- 
dears, 

But joy in an armful of beautiful dust 

That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years ? 



Kathrina. 195 

And what is ambition for glory and power, 
But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool 

Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour. 
And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool ? 

Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve, 
But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes. 

That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave 
On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies ? 

We love, and we long with an infinite greed 

For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain ; 

The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed. 
Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain. 

We plan for our powers the divinest we can ; 

We do with our powers the supremest we may ; 
And, winning or losing, for labor and plan 
The best that we garner is — rest and decay! 

Content — satisfaction — who wins them ? Look down ! 

They are held without thought by the dolts and the 
drones : 
*Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown ; 

And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones. 



196 Katkrina. 

The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel ; 

And her lover responds as he follows his team ; 
They wed, and their children come quickly to seal 

In fulfilment the pledge of their loftiest dream-. 



With humblest ambitions and homeliest fare, 
Contented, though toiling, they travel abreast, 

Till the kind hand of death lifts their burden of care, 
And they sink, in the faith of their fathers, to rest. 

Did I beg to be born? Did I seek to exist? 

Did I bargain for promptings to loftier gains ? 
Did I ask for a brain, with contempt of the fist 

That could win a reward for its labor and pains ? 

Was it kind — the strong promise that girded my 
youth ? 

Was it good — the endowment of motive and skill ? 
Was it well to succeed, when success was, in truth, 

But the saddest of failure ? Make answer, who will ! 

Do I rave without reason ? Why, look you, I pray ! 

I have won all I sought of the highest and best; 
But it brings me no guerdon ; and hopeless, to-day, 

I am poorer than when I set out on the quest. 



Kathrina. 197 

Oh ! emptiness ! Life, what art thou but a lie, 
Which I greeted and honored with hopefuUest trust ? 

Bah ! the beautiful apples that tempted my eye 
Break dead on my tongue into ashes and dust ! 

*' A Father who loves all the children of men"? 

" A future to fill all these bottomless gaps" ? 
But one life has failed : can I fasten again 

With my faith and my hope to a specious Perhaps ? 

O ! man who begot me ! O ! woman who bore ! 

Why, why did you call me to being and breath ? 
With ruin behind me, and darkness before, 

I have nothing to long for, or live for, but death ! 



PART IV. 

CONSUMMATION. 

A GUEST was in my house — a guest unbid — 

Who stayed without a welcome from his host, — 

So loathed and hated, on such errand bent. 

And armed with such resistless power of ill, 

I dared not look him in the face. I heard 

His tireless footsteps in the lonely halls, 

In the chill hours of night ; and, in the day, 

They climbed the stairs, or loitered through the rooms 

With lawless freedom. Ever when I turned 

I caught a glimpse of him. His shadow stalked 

Between me and the light, and fled before 

My restless feet, or followed close behind. 

Whene'er I bent above the couch that held 

My fading wife, though looking not, I knew 

That he was bending from the other side. 

And mocking me. 

Familiar grown, at last, 
He came more closely — came and sat with me 



Kathrina. 199 

Through hours of revery ; or, as I paced 
My dimly-lighted room, slipped his lank arm 
Through mine, and whispered in my shrinking ear 
Such fearful words as made me sick and cold. 
He took the vacant station at my board, 
Sitting where she had sat, and mixed my cup 
With poisoned waters, saying in low tones 
That none but I could hear : 

" This little room. 
Where you have breakfasted and dined and supped, 
And laughed and chatted in the days gone by. 
Will be a lonely place when we are gone. 
Those roses at the window, that were wont 
To bloom so freely with the lady's care. 
Already miss her touch. That ivy-vine 
Has grown a yard since it was tied, and needs 
A training hand." 

Rising with bitter tears 
To flee his presence, he arose with me, 
And wandered through the rooms. 

"This casket here"— 
I heard him say : " Suppose we loose the clasp. 
These are her jewels — pretty gifts of yours. 
There is a diamond : there a string of pearls. 



200 Kathrina, 

That paly opal holds a mellowed fire 

Which minds me of the mistress, whose bright soul 

Glows through the lucent whiteness of her face 

With lambent flicker. These are legacies i 

She will not wear them more. Her taste and mine 

Are one in this, that both of us love flowers. 

Ay, she shall have them, too, some pleasant day, 

When she goes forth with me ! 

" So ? what is this i 
Her wardrobe ! Let the door be opened wide ! 
This musk, so blent with scent of violets, 
Revives one. You remember when she wore 
That lavender ? — a very pretty silk ! 
Here is a moire antique. Ah ! yes — I see ! 
You did not like her in it. 'Twas too old, 
And too suggestive of the dowager. 
There is your favorite — that glossy blue — 
The sweet tint stolen from the skies of June — 
But she is done with it. I wonder who 
Will wear it, when your grief shall find a pause ! 
Your daughter — possibly ? . . . You shiver, sir ! 
Is it the velvet? Like a pall, you think! 
Well, close the door! 

"Those slippers on the rug*. 
The time will come when you will kiss their soles 



Kathrina, 201 

For the dear life that pressed them. Their rosettes 

Will be more redolent than roses then. 

You did not know how much you loved your 

wife? 
I thought so ! 

" This way ! Let us take our stand 
Beside her bed. Not quite so beautiful 
To your fond eyes as when she was a bride, 
Though still a lovely woman ! Seems it strange 
That she is yours no longer ? — that her hand 
Is given to another — to the one 
For whom she has been waiting all her life, 
And ready all her life ? Your power is gone 
To punish rivals. There you stand and weep. 
But dare not lift a finger, while with smiles 
And kindly welcome she extends her hands 
To greet her long-expected friend. She knows 
Where I will take her — to what city of God, 
What palace there, and what companionship. 
She knows what robes will drape her loveliness. 
What flowers bedeck her hair, and rise and fall 
Upon the pulses of her happy breast. 
And you, poor man ! with all your jealous pride, 
Have learned that she would turn again to you, 
And to your food and furniture of life, 
With disappointment. 
9* 



202 Kathrina. 

" Ay, she pities you — 
Loves you, indeed ; but there is One she loves 
With holier passion, and with more entire 
And gladder self-surrender. She will go — 
You know that she will go — and go with joy ; 
And you begin to see how poor and mean, 
When placed beside her joy, are all your gifts, 
And all that you have won by them. 

" Poor man ! 
Weeping again ! Well, if it comfort you. 
Rain your salt tears upon her waxen hands, 
And kiss them dry at leisure ! Press her lips. 
Hot with the hectic ! Lay your cold, wet cheek 
Against the burning scarlet of her own : 
Only remember that she is not yours, 
And that your paroxysms of grief and tears 
Are painful to her." 

Ah ! to wait for death ! 
To see one's idol with the signature 
Of the Destroyer stamped upon her brow. 
And know that she is doomed, beyond all hope ; 
To watch her while she fades ; to see the form 
That once was Beauty's own become a corpse 
In all but breathing, and to meet her eyes 
A hundred times a day — while the heart bleeds— 



Kathrina. 203 

With smiles of smooth dissembhng, and with words 
Cheerful as morning, and to do all this 
Through weeks and weary months, till one half longs 
To see the spell dissolved, and feel the worst 
That death can do : can there be misery- 
Sadder than this ? 

My time I passed alone. 
And at the bedside of my dying wife. 
She talked of death as children talk of sleep, 
When — a forgetful blank — it lies between 
Their glad impatience and a holiday. 
The morrow — ah ! the morrow ! That was name 
For hope all realized, for work all done, 
For pain all passed, for life and strength renewed, 
For fruitage of endeavor, for repose. 
For heaven ! 

What would the morrow bring to me ? 
The morrow — ah ! the morrow ! It was blank — 
Nay, blank and black with gloom of clouds and night. 
Never before had I so realized 
My helplessness. I could not find relief 
In love or labor. I could only sit, 
And gaze against a wall, without the power 
To pierce or climb. My pride of life was gone, 
My spirit broken, and my strife with God 



204 Kathrina. 

Was finished. If I could not look before, 
I dare not look above ; and so, whene'er 
I could forget the present, I went back 
Upon the past. 

One soft June day, my thoughts, ' 
Touched by some song of bird, or glimpse of green, 
Returned to life's bright morning, and the Junes 
That flooded with their wealth of life and song 
The valley of my birth. Again I walked the 

meads, 
Brilliant with beaded grass, and heard the shrill. 
Sweet jargon of the meadow-birds. Again 
I trod the forest paths, in shade of trees 
With foliage so tender that the sun 
Shot through the soft, thin leaves its virid sheen, 
As through the emerald waters of the sea. 
The scarlet tanager — a flake of fire. 
Blown from the tropic heats upon the breath 
That brought the summer — caught upon a twig. 
Or quenched its glow in some remote recess. 
The springing ferns unfolded at my feet 
Their tan-brown scrolls, the tiny star-flower shone 
Among its leaves ; the insects filled the air 
With a monotonous, reedy resonance 
Of whir and hum, and I sat down again 
Upon a bank, to gather violets. 



Kathrina, 205 

From dreams of retrospective joy I woke 

At last, to the quick tinkle of a bell. 

My wife had touched it. She had been asleep, 

And, waking, called me to her side. The note. 

Familiar as the murmur of her voice, 

For the first time was strange. Another bell, 

With other music, ran adown the years 

That lay between me and the golden day 

When, up the mountain-path, I followed far 

The lamb that bore it. AH the scene came back 

In a broad flash ; and with it came the same 

Strange apprehension of a mighty change — 

A vague prevision of transition, born 

Of what, I knew not ; on what errand sent, 

I could not guess. 

I rose upon my feet, 
Responsive to the summons, when I heard, 
Repeated in the ear of memory, 
The words my mother spoke to me that day : 

" My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain -height 

In all his little world, and gazed on scenes 

As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. 

I trust he will remember all his life 

That, to his best achievement, and the spot 

Closest to heaven his youthful feet have trod. 



2o6 Kathrina. 

He has been guided by a guileless lamb. 
It is an omen which his mother's heart 
Will treasure with her jewels." 

Had her tongue 
Been moved to prophecy ? Omen of what ? — 
Of a new height of life to be achieved 
By my lamb's leading ? Ay, it seemed like this ! 
An answer to a thousand prayers, up-breathed 
By her whom I had lost, repeated long 
By her whom I was losing ? Was it this ? 
Thus charged with premonition, when I stepped 
Into the shaded room, my cheeks were pale. 
And every nerve was quivering with the stress 
Of uncontrolled emotion. Ah ! my lamb ! 
How white ! How innocent ! My lamb, my lamb ! 
Even the scarlet ribbon which adorned 
The lambkin of my chase was at her throat, 
Repeated in a bright geranium-flower ! 

*' Loop up the curtains, love! Let in the light!" 
The words came strong and sweet, as if the life 
From which they breathed were at its tidal flood. 
''Oh! blessed light!" she added, as the sun 
Flamed on the velvet roses of the floor. 
And touched to life the pictures on the wall, 
And smote the dusk with bars of amber. 



Kathrina. 207 

" Paul ! " 

I turned to answer, and beheld a face 
That glowed with a celestial fire like his 
Who talked with God in Sinai. 

" Paul," she said, 
" I have been almost home. I may not tell. 
For language cannot paint, what I have seen. 
The veil was very thin, and I so near, 
I caught the sheen of multitudes, and heard 
Voices that called and answered from afar 
Through spaces inconceivable, and songs 
Whose harmonies responsive surged and sank 
On the attenuate air, till all my soul 
Was thrilled and filled with music, and I prayed 
To be let loose, that I might cast myself 
Upon the mighty tides, and give my life 
To the supernal raptures. Ay, I prayed 
That death might come, and give me my release 
From this poor clay, and that I might be born 
By its last travail into life." 

" Dear wife," I said, 
" You have been wildly dreaming, and your brain, 
Quickened to strange vagaries by disease, 
Has cheated you. You must not talk like this : 



2o8 Kathrina. 

'Twill harm you. I will hold your hand awhile. 
And you shall have repose." 

She smiled and said, 
While her eyes shone with an unearthly light : 
*' You are not wise, my dear, in things like these. 
The vision was as real as yourself; 
And it will not be long before I go 
To mingle in the life that I have seen. 
I know it, dearest, for she told me this." 

** She told you this?" I said,— " Who told you this? 
Did you hold converse with the multitude ? " 

*' Not with the multitude," she answered me ; 
" But while I gazed upon the throng, and prayed 
That death might loose me, there appeared a group 
Of radiant ones behind the filmy veil 
That hung between us, looking helplessly 
Upon my struggle, but with eyes that beamed 
With love ineffable. I knew them too — 
Knew all of them but one — and she the first. 
And sweetest of them all. Pure as the light. 
And beautiful as morning, she advanced ; 
And, at her touch, the veil was parted wide. 
While she passed through, and stood beside my 
bed. 



Kathrina. 209 

She took my hand, she kissed my burning cheek, 
And then, in words that calmed my spirit, said ; 

" ^ Your prayer will soon be answered ; but one prayer 

Breathed many years by you, and many years 

By one you know not, must be answered first. 

You must go back, though for a little time, 

And reap the harvest of a life. To him 

Whom you and I have loved, say all your heart 

Shall move your lips to speak, and he will hear. 

The strength, the boldness, the persuasive power 

Which you may need for this, shall all be yours ; 

For you shall have the ministry of those 

Whom you have seen. Speak as a dying wife 

Has liberty to speak to him she leaves ; 

And tell him this — that he may know the voice 

That gives you your commission — tell him this : 

The lamb has slipped the leash by which his hand 

Held her in thrall, and seeks the mountain-height ; 

And he, if he reclaim her to his grasp. 

Must follow where she leads, and kneel at last 

Upon the summit by her side. And more : 

Give him my promise that if he do this, 

He shall receive from that fair altitude 

Such vision of the realm that lies around, 

Cleft by the river of immortal life. 

As shall so lift him from his selfishness, 



210 Kathrina. 

And so enlarge his soul, that he shall stand 
Redeemed from all unworthiness, and saved 
To happiness and heaven.'" 

Her words flowed forth 
With the strong utterance, in truth, of one 
Inspired from other worlds ; while pale and faint, 
I drank her revelations. Unbelief 
Had given the lie to her abounding faith, 
And held her vision figment of disease, 
Until the message of my mother fell 
Upon my ears. Then overcome, I wept 
With deep convulsions, rose and walked the room, 
Wrung my clasped hands, and cried with choking 

voice, 
'' My mother ! O ! my mother ! " 

" Gently, love ! 
For she is with you," said my dying wife. 
*' Nay, all of them are with us. This small room 
Is now the gate of heaven ; and you must do 
That which befits the presence and the place. 
Come ! sit beside me ; for my time is short. 
And I have much to say. What will you do 
When I am gone ? Will the old life of art 
Content you ? Will you fill your waiting time 
With the old dreams of fame and excellence ? " 



Kathrina. 2 1 1 

"Alas!" I answered, "I am done with life: 
My life is dead ; and though my hand has won 
All it has striven to win, and all my heart 
In its weak pride has prompted it to seek 
Of love and honor ; though success is mine 
In all my eager enterprise, I know 
My life has been a failure. I am left 
Or shall be left, when you, my love, are gone, 
Without resource — a hopeless, worthless man, 
Longing to hide his shame and his despair 
Within the grave." 

" I thank thee, Lord ! " she said : 
" So many prayers are answered ! . . . You knew 

not 
That I had asked for this. You did not know 
When you were striving with your feeble might 
For the great prizes that beguiled your pride. 
That at the hand of God I begged success. 
Ay, Paul, I prayed that you might gather all 
The good that you have won, and that, at last. 
You might be brought to know the worthlessness 
Of every selfish meed, and feel how weak — 
How worse than helpless — is the highest man 
Who lives within, and labors to, himself. 
Not one of all the prizes you have gained 
Contains the good that lies in your despair." 



2 1 2 Kathrina, 

"Teach me," I said, '*for I am ignorant; 
Lead me, for I am blind. Explain the past, 
With all its errors. Why am I so low, 
And you so high ? " 

She pressed my hand, and said; 
*' You have been hungry all your life for God, 
And known it not. You lavished first on me 
Your heart's best love. You poured its treasured 

wealth 
At an unworthy shrine. You made a God 
Of poor mortality ; and when you learned 
Your love was greater than the one you loved — 
The one you worshipped — you invoked the aid 
Of your imagination, to enrich 
Your pampered idol, till at last you bowed 
Before a creature of your thought. You stole 
From excellence divine the grace and good 
That made me worshipful ; and even these 
Palled on your heart at last, and ceased to yield 
The inspiration that you craved. You pined, 
You starved for something infinitely sweet; 
And still you sought it blindly, wilfully 
In your poor wife, — sought it, and found it not, 
Through wasted years of life. 

" And then you craved 
An infinite return. You asked for more 



Kathrina. 213 

Than I could give, although I gave you all 

That woman can bestow on man. You knew 

You held my constant love, unlimited 

Save by the bounds of mortal tenderness ; 

And still you longed for more. Then sprang youf 

scheme 
For finding in the love of multitudes. 
And in their praise, that which had failed in me. 
You wrote for love and fame, and won them both 
By manly striving — won and wore them long. 
All good there is in love and praise of men, 
You garnered in your life. On this reward 
You lived, till you were sated, or until 
You learned it bore no satisfying meed — 
Learned that the love of many was not more 
Than love of one. With all my love your own, 
With love and praise of men, your famished soul 
Craved infinite approval — craved a love 
Beyond the love of woman and of man. 

" Then with new hope, you apotheosized 
Your cherished art, and sought for excellence 
And for your own approval ; with what end. 
Your helplessness informs me. You essayed 
The revelation of the mighty forms 
That dwell in the unrealized. You sought 
To shape your best ideals, and to find 



214 Kathrina. 

In the grand scheme your motive and reward. 
All this blind reaching after excellence, 
Was but the reaching of your soul for God. 
Imagination could not touch the height ; 
And you were baffled. So, you failed to find 
The God your spirit yearned for in your art, 
And failed of self- approval. 

** You have now 
But one resource, — you are shut up to this : 
You must bow down and worship God ; and give 
Your heart to him, accept his love for you. 
And feast your soul on excellence in him. 
So, a new life shall open to your feet, 
Strown richly with rewards ; and when your steps 
Shall reach the river, I will wait for you 
Upon the other shore, and we shall be 
One in the life immortal as in this. 
O I Paul ! your time is now. I cannot die 
And leave you comfortless. I cannot die 
And enter on the pleasures that I know 
Await me yonder, with the consciousness 
That you are still unhappy." 

All my life 
Thus lay revealed in light which she had poured 
Upon its track. I learned where she had found 



Kathrina, 215 

Her peaceful joy, her satisfying good, 
And. where, in my rebellious pride of heart, 
Mine had been lost. She, by an instinct sure, 
Or by the grace of Heaven, had in her youth. 
Though sorely chastened, given herself to God ; 
And through a life of saintly purity — ■ 
A life of love to me and love to all — 
Had feasted at the fountain of all love. 
Had worshipped at the Excellence Divine, 
And only waited for my last adieu 
To take her crown. 

I sat like one struck dumb. 
I knew not how to speak, or what to do. 
She looked at me expectant ; while a thrill 
Of terror shot through all my frame. 

" Alas ! " 
She said, " I thought you would be ready now." 

At this, the door was opened silently. 

And our dear daughter stood within the room. 

Alarmed at vision of the sudden change 

That death had wrought upon her mother's face. 

She hastened to her side, and kneeling there. 

Bowed on her breast with tears and choking sobs. 

Her heart too full for speech. 



2i6 Kathrina. 

"Be silent, dear!" 
The dying mother said, resting her hand 
Upon her daughter's head. "Be silent, dear! 
Your father kneels to pray. Make room for him, 
That he may kneel beside you." 

At her words, 
I was endowed with apprehensions new ; 
And somewhere in my quickened consciousness, 
I felt the presence of her heavenly friends, 
And knew that there were spirits in the room. 
I did not doubt, nor have I doubted since. 
That there were loving witnesses of all 
The scenes enacted round that hallowed bed. 
Ay, and they spoke. Deep in the innermost 
I heard the tender words, " O ! kneel my son! — ** 
A sweet monition from my mother's lips. 

" Kneel ! kneel ! " It was the echo of a throng. 

'* Kneel ! kneel ! " The gentle mandate reached mj 

heart 
From depths of lofty space. It was the voice 
Of the Good Father. 

From the curtain folds, 
That rustled at the window, in the airs 



Kathrina. 217 

That moved with conscious pulse to passing wings, 
Came the same burden ''Kneel!" 

*' Kneel! kneel! O! kneel!" 
In tones of earnest pleading, came from lips 
Already pinched by death. 

A hundred worlds. 
Imposed upon my shoulders, had not bowed 
And crushed me to my knees with surer power. 
The hand that lay upon my daughter's head 
Then passed to mine ; but still my lips were dumb. 

** Pray 1 " said the spirit of my mother. 

"Pray!" 
The word repeated, came from many lips. 

"Pray!" said the voice of God within my soul; 
While every whisper of the living air 
Echoed the low command. 

"Pray! pray! O! pray!" 
My dying wife entreated, while swift tears 
Slid to her pillow. 

Then the impulse came, 
And I poured out like water all my heart. 



2 1 8 Kathrina. 

*' O ! God!" I said, ''be merciful to me 
A reprobate ! I have blasphemed thy name, 
Abused thy patient love, and held from thee 
My heart and life ; and now, in my extreme 
Of need and of despair, I come to thee. 

! cast me not away, for here, at last, 
After a life of selfishness and sin, 

1 yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul- 
All that I am, all I can ever be — 
Supremely to thy service. I renounce 

All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise, * 
And dedicate the remnant of my power 
To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me ! 
O ! come and comfort me, for I despair ! 
Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed ! 
Feed me with love, else I shall die of want ! 
Behold ! I empty out my worthlessness, 
And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul 
With thy rich presence. I adore thy love ; 
I seek for thy approval ; I bow down, 
And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme. 
I've tasted of the sweetest that the world 
Can give to me ; and human love and praise. 
And all of excellence within the scope 
Of my conception, and my power to reach 
And realize in highest forms of art, 
Have left me hungry, thirsty for thyself. 



Kathrina. 219 

! feed and fire me ! Fill and furnish me ! 
And if thou hast for me some humble task — 
Some service for thyself, or for thy own — 
Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child. 

Or use him as thy willing instrument. 

1 ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ, 
Henceforth my Master ! " 

Multitudes, it seemed, 
Responded with ^' Amen ! " as if the word 
Were caught, from mortal lips by swooping choirs 
Of spirits ministrant, and borne away 
In sweet reverberations into space. 

I raised my head at last, and met the eyes 
Bright with the light of death, and with the dawn 
Of opening heaven. The smile that overspread 
The fading features was the peaceful smile 
Of an immortal, — full of faith and love — 
A satisfied, triumphant, shining smile, 
Lit by the heavenly glory. 

" Paul," she said, 
" My work is done ; but you will live and work 
These many years. Your life is just begun. 
Too late, but well begun ; and you are mine, 
Now and forevermore. . . . Dear Lord ! my thanks 
For this thy crowning blessing ! " 



220 Kathrina, 

Then she paused, 
And raised her eyes in a seraphic trance, 
And lifted her thin fingers, that were thrilled 
With tremulous motion, like the slender spray- 
On which a throbbing song-bird clings, and pours 
His sweet incontinence of ecstasy. 
And then in broken whispers said to me : 
" Do you not hear them ? They have caught the news ; 
And all the sky is ringing with their song 
Of gladness and of welcome. ^ Paul is saved / 
Paul is redeemed and saved P I hear them cry ; 
And myriad voices catch the new delight. 
And carry the acclaim, till heaven itself 
Sends back the happy echo : ' Paul is saved I ' " 

She stretched her hands, and took me to her breast. 
I kissed her, blessed her, spoke my last adieu. 
And yielded place to her whom God had given 
To be our child. After a long embrace, 
She whispered: '^ I am weary; let me sleep!" 

She passed to peaceful slumber like a child, 
The while attendant angels built the dream 
On which she rode to heaven. Not once again 
She spoke to mortal ears, but slept and smiled, 
And slept and smiled again, till daylight passed. 
The night came down; the long hours lapsed awa^' 



Kathrina. 221 

Ihe city sounds grew fainter, till at last 
We sat alone with silence and with death. 
At the first blush of morning she looked up, 
And spoke, but not to us : '' I'm coming now!" 

I sought the window, to relieve the pain 

Of long suppressed emotion. In the East, 

Tinged with the golden dawn, the morning star 

Was blazing in its glory, while beneath, 

The slender moon, at its last rising, hung, 

Paling and dying in the growing light, 

And passing with that leading up to heaven. 

My daughter stood beside her mother's bed. 

But I had better vision of the scene 

In the sweet symbol God had hung for me 

Upon the sky. 

Swiftly the dawn advanced. 
And higher rose, and still more faintly shone, 
The star-led moon. Then, as it faded out. 
Quenched by prevailing day, I heard one sigh-=^ 
A sigh so charged with pathos of deep joy, 
And peace ineffable, that memory 
Can never lose the sound ; and all was past ! 



222 Kathrina. 

The peaceful summer-day that rose upon 

This night of trial and this morn of grief, 

Rose not with calmer light than that which dawned 

Upon my spirit. Chastened, bowed, subdued, 

I kissed the rod that smote me, and exclaimed : 

" The Lord hath given ; the Lord hath taken away 

And blessed be his name ! " 

Rebellion slept. 
I grieved, and still I grieve ; but with a heart 
At peace with God, and soft with sympathy 
Toward all my sorrowing, struggling, sinful race. 
My hope, that clung so fondly to the world 
And the rewards of time, an anchor sure 
Now grasps the Eternal Rock within the veil 
Of troubled waters. Storms may wrench and toss, 
And tides may swing me, in their ebb and flow, 
But I shall not be moved. 

Once more ! once more \ 
I shall behold her face, and clasp her hand ! 
Once more — forevermore ! 

So here I giv6 
The gospel of her precious, Christian life. 
I owe it to herself, and to the world. 



Kathrina, 223 

Grateful for all her tender ministry 
In life and death, I bring these leaves, entwined 
With her own roses, dewy with my tears, 
And lay them as the tribute of my love 
Upon the grave that holds her sacred dust. 



END. 









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